The Debt
by Laerthel
Summary: The Western Roman Empire is falling, and Crowley is tormented by doubt. One day, he remembers an act of kindness left unreciprocated since Sodom and Gomorrah. Feeling indebted, he leaves behind his rich and comfortable life in Constantinopolis to rescue - well, definitely NOT a friend... (Aziraphale & Crowley; friendship or more).
1. Blue and Yellow

**A/N: **_Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Pratchett & Gaiman; and the rest to God him(or her?)-self, as they are all the shadows of real, breathing people from ancient times. The cover picture is a close-up to Cabanel's 'Fallen Angel'. The only thing I can claim is the thread of story weaving all these together._

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**The Debt**

_"...for I know that there is no good in me - in my flesh, that is - as I do not do the good deeds that I wish to, only evil [ones] that I do not. (...) I find, thus, that when I wish to do what is right, Evil resides in me; because while the human in me delights in the law of God, I sense another law in my body, thwarting the law of my mind. A wretched one I am! Who shall rescue me from this death-laden body?"_

PROS ROMAIOVS 7:18-24 (VUL)

**.**

**409 AD**

In the colourful, summer-sweet abundance of Constantinopolis, Imperator Regens Flavius Anthemius was having a terrible day. His mood had little to do with the atrocious weather or the fact that his wine had become lukewarm once again, and much more with Rhetor Azrá'il sitting languidly beside him; now scribbling a note on a scrap of parchment, then staring absentmindedly at a pair of seagulls as they pecked at crumbs on the window-sill. It seemed that he needed the rest of his energy to look appropriately offended at the applicants who dared to challenge his place as the young Emperor's private _magister_; and to be entirely honest, Anthemius could not blame him. In this particular matter, they happened to be on opposite sides; and were someone to question _his_ authority, he would have probably felt the same.

Getting friendly with the royal house of Persia had proved to be one of the most excellent ideas of Anthemius's long career; it happened thus that the late Emperor's infant son had come into the protection of Persian Shah Yazdegerd, first of his name; and the court of Constantinopolis had received Azrá'il as a token of his goodwill. As a gift.

_And a true gift he has proved in every sense of the word, _Anthemius thought, not without unease. Really, Azrá'il was a true delight when it came to getting along with a youth who held the better part of the world in his hands; to counselling officials of all sort; to solving mathematical problems in architecture; to describing celestial bodies as they moved across the skies; to raising questions of philosophy and ethics… and one could go on for hours if they wished to. Azrá'il seemed to have a wonderful – although in Anthemius's opinion, most disconcerting – talent to say exactly _what_ people wanted to hear, and exactly _when_ they wanted to hear it. Hearts opened to him like overused books, and no man could escape his scrutiny if he decided to indulge in it.

Yet he was ruthless, at times. Callous, at other times. Strangely wise, yet other times… In that sense, he was a man of conflict, of paradox, of unspoken questions; and as such, he seemed to _inspire _people. On top of it all, the young Emperor practically idolized him – which is mostly why Anthemius thought that a little _distancing_ would be long overdue.

Simply put, the Imperator Regens hated Rhetor Azrá'il – truly _hated,_ from his snarky drawl of a voice to his ostentatious dark robes, abundant red hair and shaded eyes; and he could not, for the love of the Almighty, understand why no one else shared his feelings. People let too many things slip these days… in the past decades, Constantinopolis – then Byzantium – had been overflowing with talent and inspiration, with men of science and artistic value challenging and overstepping each other day by day, year by year. And today…? _Today,_ it seemed that no scholar could match the skills of this Persian popinjay. You threw in one reference to Draco or a half-hearted joke from Aristophanes and they were all at a loss of words, as if to emphasize Azrá'il's indispensability at court. As if they had all come on some devilish whim of stupidity and featurelessness…

Anthemius gave his goblet a slight frown and emptied it, trying to pretend that his drink was still cool. It was ill luck to think of the Devil in such a holy city, sipping the Emperor's wine and eating his grapes. Even if Azrá'il ate most of the grapes.

"Are you tired?" The rhetor asked, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upwards.

"I expected that these… _conversations_ would prove somewhat less dull," said Anthemius, carefully considering every word.

"Then you should have invited at least one impostor." Azrá'il raised an eyebrow. "Or courtesans."

"Nay and nay!" Anthemius bit his tongue angrily. "I only wish to find a true scholar, as I have already told you. And you are not making the task easier."

"Did you honestly expect me to _make it easier?_ Sip my wine, socialize and let another take my place without a second glance?"

"No one is taking your place – you are merely getting an assistant. As I told you, I cannot have the young Emperor getting all the lore of the world from one single source. Not even if that source is you." Anthemius frowned. "Truly, you must agree that it is a ruler's prerogative to be kept open-minded."

"It is a ruler's duty to keep _himself_ open-minded," said Azrá'il softly. "Surely, you must have learned that through all the years you've spent in fancy chairs."

Anthemius bit his lip. The insult was palpably there; yet it had been spoken so playfully, so elusively that it would have been most ridiculous to acknowledge it. Were he to try and answer with a matching remark, the edge of his words would slither off Azrá'il like water from a rooftop. And Azrá'il must have reeled through the same thread of thought, for that slight upsway in the corners of his mouth turned into a lazy grin. "Off we go, _amice_. One more scholar today to brighten our wits. Are you with me?"

"Most definitely," said Anthemius stiffly. He lifted his goblet, but it was empty; and the gesture earned him a sympathetic look from the rhetor, who then pointedly took a sip from his own.

"Last one!" Anthemius barked at a frightened servant, letting out all the bile he'd been saving for Azrá'il. The slit between the jewel-wrought door wings widened at his will, revealing the silhouette of an old man. With his simple, woollen garments, large staff and heaving grey beard, he looked like a stander-by from some biblical parable; and when he spoke his greetings, his voice was clear and smooth like water from a spring.

Anthemius looked at the stranger in wonder, feeling the day's fatigue and irritation ebb away. Curiously enough, Azrá'il seemed to tense up beside him, and so much that he could not resist a brief glance – only to realize, even more suspiciously so, that Azrá'il noticed, and eased himself at will.

"Tell us your name, rhetor," Anthemius said, musing, "and whence you came."

"They call me Hieronymus these days," said the stranger softly. "I come from Jerusalem, but my homeland is, and it shall always be, fair Dalmatia."

"Good wine, there," said Azrá'il. Whatever strange effect this man had on him, he seemed to have shaken it off.

"And great fish stew, my lord," said Hieronymus, a little too enthusiastically for one who was supposed to be a renowned scholar. "At times, I greatly miss it."

"Whatever brought you to Jerusalem, then? Or here?" Azrá'il asked, with a smile that bared unusually sharp teeth.

"Honest work. The truest essence of our despicable earthly existence, isn't it?" The old man sighed, somewhat contentedly, somewhat theatrically. "My great endeavour is to translate the Holy Texts to Latin and Greek – organize them and make notes wherever necessary. You see, I am here to dust my Greek off. Aramaic has been a handful, I must tell you – and Hebrew, and all the regional tongues you would not even want to know about. I shall be all too happy to return to the language of _logos_ and _ethos_."

"If you are as skilled as you claim to be, you shall be a mighty addition to the Emperor's court," said Anthemius with visible delight. Despite the decrees and laws that marked the Empire's schism and despite the fact that most of the Eastern Emperor's subjects spoke Greek, the everyday transition from Latin was slow and difficult; with centuries of smoothened manners and solidified customs demolished like idols of Pagan gods. If this scholar would advocate the usage of Greek… if he would expand his works of translation to the New Laws and Customs, or – God forbid – Anthemius's newly planned tax regulations…

"Very well, my friend," said Azrá'il in flawless Greek. "You barely entered this room and you have already given us so much hope. Tell me now, for I am curious… which one of the Five Canons of Rhetoric do you think is the most important – and why?"

And so it began.

Anthemius, to his credit, managed to keep his focus on what the two rhetors were saying for almost twenty minutes – the problem was that after that, their philosophical debate reached depths that he, a man of law could never hope to grasp. One thing, however, he understood: this old man, this Hieronymus was possibly the first person ever to have caught Azrá'il off-guard. _Repeatedly._ The Rhetor was _listening_ to this stranger with all his might; and maybe, just maybe they were both _enjoying their debate_…?

Forgetting himself, Anthemius reached for his goblet once again. He battled with the inexplicably strong impression of turning into a heated bit of steel, stuck between hammer and anvil…

And then, suddenly, Azrá'il burst out laughing.

"Very well, scholar!" He exclaimed. There was an edge to his voice, one Anthemius had never heard before; and it spoke of challenge and intrigue. "Stay! And see if this city can bear us both. Next time, you might as well try and persuade me that the sky is green."

Hieronymus took the last grape from the big bowl and rolled it around in his palm. "Why, Rhetor Azrá'il," he said slowly, cautiously, "do you claim that the skies cannot, under any circumstances, be green?"

"Well, have you ever _seen_ them green?" Azrá'il shrugged. "Apart from that dense sea-ish colour only pirates sing about? Because that, my friend, is a shade of blue. Aristotle states it somewhere."

"Aristotle states many things." Hieronymus smiled innocently. "But you misunderstand me. I did not ask whether you saw the skies green; I asked if you thought it was impossible that they _were_."

_Bloody sophists,_ Anthemius thought; but Azrá'il propped his chin up on one elbow, in his eyes a mischievous gleam. "Do elaborate."

Hieronymus smiled. "I think, Rhetor Azrá'il, that we can safely assume that we have both seen the skies blue, is that right?"

"Right."

"And whenever the Sun sets for the night, we also experience yellow skies, and red, and purple, do we not?"

Azrá'il tilted his head. "We do."

"Indeed. Now – my lord, my explication might sound gibberish to you, but do listen to me. I have a dear friend back in Rome, one Bonosus, who has tried his hand in painting once or twice; and he discovered that the colours blue and yellow were two parts of a whole. Which is to say, when you mix them together, you obtain the clearest shade of green. And if we accept this as truth – which we must, for it has been proved – we must also say that blue and yellow are opposites to each other. Two components… an _alpha_ and an _omega_… and together, they create something new, something that is _both_. Think of light and darkness: they create shadows. Of night and day: they create Time. Of richness and poverty: they create Balance. Of Heaven and Hell…" Hieronymus smiled fondly. "They create God."

Azrá'il, who had been swinging his chair in feigned boredom, lost his balance for a moment; and it took a short, sharp shove from Anthemius to push him back in place.

"_What are you thinking?!" _The Rhetor hissed. "God is not from Hell! Heaven and Hell cannot be put together to _create_ anything! Can you hear me, foolissssh man?! ANYTHING!"

For the shortest fraction of a second, Azrá'il's face transformed into something inhuman, something _strange._ A bright light flared up beneath the shade of the spectacles he wore to shield his sensitive eyes; but it smouldered and died out instantly, leaving the sole and simple impression of a truly enraged man.

"I believe, Magister Hieronymus," said Anthemius in a tone that he considered effortless, "that the word you have been looking for is, ahem, the Absolute."

"_Absolute,"_ Hieronymus repeated thoughtfully. "Thank you. But God and the Absolute – are they not the same? Many believe that God is above everything, Hell as well as Heaven; and his Will is – well, everything. Good and Bad and their balance. Almighty. Unerring. Ineffable."

Azrá'il took a deep breath, supporting himself with both arms. "Then they should all find a priest and confess. We are not having that sort of nonsense here." He swallowed. "And the sky is not green. I assume that you think it might be, given that it can be blue or it can be yellow. But as all mor…_humans,_ you overlook the essence: the simple and, as you put it, _ineffable_ fact that the sky cannot be both blue and yellow in the same time. It can be one or it can be the other – now with one colour taking over, and then the other. But blue and yellow, coexist as they might, can never _merge, _Hieronymus. Not in the skies." Azrá'il's breath hitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again to speak. "I think…" he said hesitantly. "I think that blue and yellow can only merge if man makes them."

For all the passion Anthemius hated philosophy with, he could not ignore the perfect and utter truth of this assumption; and for a moment, he could only stare at the Rhetor, mouth agape. However, when Azrá'il cocked his head and asked if Hieronymus had passed the test, he quickly collected himself and gave his accord, to which the Rhetor gave his; and he left the room in haste.

"You must forgive his brusqueness," Anthemius said, a bit awkwardly. "He is – well, Rhetor Azrá'il does whatever he pleases. He is in the Emperor's good graces."

Hieronymus smiled. "And not yours."

"He never did anything to inspire aversion in me, or anyone else."

"He still has."

Anthemius glanced sharply at the old man. "Have you ever been exiled from anywhere?"

"No." Hieronymus chuckled. "Trust me, I cannot understand how, either."

"Very good," Anthemius raised his empty cup in a gesture of appeasement. "Let us keep it that way."

* * *

Outside the Western Wing of the great palace, Rhetor Azrá'il was balancing himself on the edge of the wall, his togae a most unbecoming mess. There was a soft breeze coming up from the seaside; now it felt like a caress on his cheeks, then like soothing words whispered into his hair.

Still, he could barely breathe.

"Is it still not enough?" He murmured, as if speaking to someone not present. "I ran as far as Persia and the wilderness, and you still came… taunting… whispering…. I know it now, I know it, _I know it,_ why is it not enough for you?!" His voice cracked. "You sent this man after me – I know it was you, it is _always _you!"

Below him, the tide was rising. Swirling tendrils of water crept up the shores and among the piers in the port, and Azrá'il stared silently, watching the Sun set and the shadows deepen.

"I know you sent this man to put doubt in me. Why don't you go for Hastur instead?" Azrá'il snarled. "Hastur could use some pain. Why can't _he_ know? Why is it only me?" He gulped. "You mock me. You know how hungry I am, how hungry I have _always_ been for knowledge, and you know what I did for it. And I showed you. _I showed you everything I knew, _and you smote me like one smites a snail… or a cockroach… with the tip of one's foot…"

After what felt like a thousand years, Azrá'il straightened his back, and removed the shades from his eyes for a moment, as if to adjust them.

"I do not answer to you," he said in a low voice. "Never have. You must know that by now. I defy you, Son of Man!"

When he lowered his hand, the tips of his fingers were wet.

.

* * *

**Further A/N:** Okay, so I'll try to be brief… Thing is, Good Omens hit me like a brick in the head, turning my attention away from ALL other fandoms I've been invested in these days. It's like a trip of... I don't know what, really. I haven't felt this enthusiastic, this inspired and frankly, this AWED in a very long while.

The idea of this fic comes from the very simple (and decisive) fact that Crowley changed his name after he met "The Son of Man". Now, I'm awfully self-conscious about the whole thing… see, I'm not a historian or a theologist - or a philosopher, for that matter -, so there's no way I could actually pull this off as _believable_ or _accurate_ or anything. (My Latin is rather good, though… at least I have that). And the whole idea of Crowley getting the hint that things aren't supposed to be simply "good" or "bad" is way too intriguing to ignore; as is the concept of presenting both Crowley and Aziraphale in a more "supernatural" way than we usually see them. This fic is my darling little child now, and I'll write as much of it as I'm able… but I can't make promises.

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**Who-is-who in this chapter:**

_**Flavius Anthemius**__ was a praetorian prefect of the East and effective regent of the Eastern Roman Empire during the reign of Arcadius and the first years of Theodosius II, during which time he supervised the construction of the first set of the famous Theodosian Walls._

_**Eusebius Sophronius Hieronymus,**__ also known as __**Saint Jerome,**__ is best known for his translation of most of the Bible into Latin (the translation that became known as the Vulgate), and his commentaries on the Gospels._

_**Yazdegerd I** was the twelfth king (shah) of the Sasanian Empire, ruling from 399 to 420. There were cordial relations between Persia and the Eastern as well as the Western Roman Empire. Early during his reign, Yazdegerd was entrusted the care of the Roman prince Theodosius, and he faithfully defended his life, power and possessions._

_**ʿ**__**Azrā**__**ʾ**__**ī**__**l**__ (__عزرائيل__, Arabic) or __ʿ__ázar__ʾ__ē__l (_עֲזַרְאֵל_, Ancient Hebrew) translates to 'Angel of God'. In both Islam and Jewish tradition, it is a name for the Archangel of Death, Azrael. The name, as we might still learn, is all too fitting for Crowley._


	2. A Deed Without Precedent

**Three weeks later**

For all his years spent on Earth, the demon Crowley could not grow used to getting on his knees in front of an eight-year-old and calling him Emperor. Humans had funny notions of power and its hereditary nature – not that the demon Crowley was bad at playing along, of course.

And Rhetor Azrá'il, for his part, was a _natural_.

The job had practically laid itself down in front of him, when King Yazdegerd's general had found him in the desert and brought him to the Persian court, where people discovered that he spoke Latin. And Hebrew. And Greek. And most of their languages, really – it came with travelling, and being older than time.

When Yazdegerd decided that he would send a tutor for this Roman prince, Azrá'il came as a natural choice; and the demon Crowley within was very pleased with himself. From the dry, dusty heat of Persia, he had suddenly been thrown into a pot of gold – almost literally so –, with soldiers standing guard above him and servants hanging on his words, refilling his cups and battling with each other for his good graces.

The Regent Emperor was a true pain in the_ ass_, to be sure, but the infant one was so... innocent. Gullible. Very, very much of a child. And here he was, a demon from Hell, practically _raising_ the human who was going to rule the better part of the world from the moment he would come of age. Day by day, Crowley whispered into his ear, making him question and revalue everything others told him; turning his attention onto things people usually preferred to leave undisturbed, such as the nature of stars or the impeccability of religion. He had to be careful, of course, to disguise blasphemy as mild critique and scorn as concern; but it seemed to work so far.

With every passing day, the future Emperor of the Roman East was pulled tighter and tighter into Hell's grasp. At least, that is what Crowley liked to think. Presently, though, he was sitting on the edge of the boy's bed, acquainting himself with one of Anthemius's horrible new tax regulation plans, and silently pondering if he should open a slit between the curtains when he leaves. Emperor Theodosius II would surely not be afraid of the dark when he grows up, but this child _was_.

He would leave a slit by all means, Anthemius be damned. He doesn't know anything about kids, and how they work…

"_Azrail?"_

The voice was much less sleepy than he would have liked.

"Watch the stress, my prince," he said softly. "I have told you about Arabic."

"I don't need to know Arabic," Theodosius said thoughtfully. "I can always make them speak Latin. Or Greek."

"Now that would not do much good to us, would it?" Said Crowley, thoroughly pleased. "All the poor, _poor _people choking on r-s and hissing their s-es. A true Emperor should know how to force without forcing. If you want them to speak your language, you should make them_ want_ to do it. Make them think it _should_ happen." He touched the boy's forehead. "I would merely buy an interpreter if I were you, though. Have them shipped from Alexandria."

That seemed to please Theodosius. "Will you buy me one, Azrail? A _real_ interpreter slave from Alexandria?"

Crowley tilted his head. "Anything and everything my prince wishes. Now shoo, your dreams are awaiting. May they be – enlightening." He could not bring himself to say _sweet_.

But the boy was clinging to his togae.

"You can't leave yet! I want to ask something."

"It's the second hour of the day, my prince. I only heard a noise and came to check on you. If Anthemius finds out that you are awake, he'll have my head."

"Then I will have his," Theodosius scoffed. "And if you leave now, I'm not going to sleep. Not _ever!"_

"Enough," said Crowley. Slowly, gingerly, he unshaded his gaze, eyes two smouldering chasms of yellow fire in the darkness of the room. "I don't want you to play with words like _not ever,_ or _forever_. You don't know what they mean."

"Oh, but I do," said Theodosius defiantly. "Hieronymus told me. They both mean _right_ _until I change my mind_."

Crowley almost laughed.

"Very well, my prince," he growled, more out of habit than true irritation, "then you don't need me at all, do you? After all, you have Magister Hieronymus to answer all your questions, to smother all your doubts."

"No," said Theodosius, with all the sincerity and seriousness of his eight years. "Sometimes, he lies. Like today. And you need to tell me what _really_ happened instead."

"_Happened?"_ Now that was most tactless, as far as Crowley was concerned. "What did he say?"

"He told me a story from the Holy Book, and there were _bad angels_ in it. But I'm smarter than that. Angels can't be bad, that's why they're _angels!"_ Theodosius sat up in his bed, fingers drumming excitedly on top of his blanket. "You will tell me the truth, Azrail. What really happened there."

"What really happened _where?"_ Crowley blinked.

"Sodom and Gomorrah."

"Oh."

_Breathe,_ Crowley reminded himself. _Pull yourself together, you witless fiend. It's over – it was a long time ago. It cannot hurt you._ But the mere memory of the smoke and destruction wrinkled his nose and clawed at his throat; and he had to look away.

"Why," he murmured, "why in the name of… _everything_ would he tell you about that?!" He took a deep breath. "He shouldn't have. Not yet."

Theodosius was looking at him with fond fascination. "So you can tell me what _really_ happened!" He whispered. _"You can!_ I knew it!"

"Why would I tell you anything else than the Magister?" Crowley frowned. "You have heard what the Book says, and I am sure that Hieronymus explained the parable just as thoroughly as any scholar would. You might as well listen to a Christian for once – just to know what to avoid. Why do you think those angels were so bad, anyway? They came to those cities of sin to _destroy evil_. That is what angels do. Smite the creatures of Hell – just as creatures of Hell burn those of Heaven if they can. Above and Below are perpetually at war; and Earth is no more than a field for that war, where humans can choose sides. That is the way of the world."

"But that's not what happened here!" The young Emperor snapped. "There was a man named Lot, and his family, and they were _nice._ Fat lot of good it did to them! When they fled, and Lot's wife looked back at the city, she turned into salt… she died and she was _damned, _just like all the sinners in the city, and I don't understand why… Hieronymus said it was God's justice, but it is _not just!_ The wife did nothing wrong, she just looked back!"

Crowley was silent for a long time, wearing his well-rehearsed Thoughtful Persian Rhetor – expression. Then slowly, hesitantly, he spoke.

"We tell this tale differently, down in – Persia. I suppose it would do no harm if you listened to a slightly more colourful version. The one I have heard from King Yazdegerd when he took me into his court. But when I am done, you shall _go to sleep._ Even Emperors need rest, you know."

"I will, I promise." Theodosius was staring at him expectantly, eyes wide. "Just tell me…"

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his thoughts. Unlike most demons, he had always liked a good tale, and he thought that any tale had to be told with _style_; so he narrowed the orange-ish slits of his eyes to what he considered a relaxed expression, and started speaking.

"Where I come from, the lore-masters say that ever since the first man and the first woman have been chased from the Garden of Eden, God has been testing humankind in mysterious ways. He let them build their first settlements, then sent a great flood over them. He let them build the Tower of Babel, then watched it collapse. He let them build the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah by waters and rocks… and engulfed them in flames. Each time, men turned against God, or so it was told by the old and wise. The same thing kept happening, over and over again: men gathered in alliances, built something and began to prosper… and once they were rich enough, once the danger of imminent famine and destruction passed, they turned against each other. And God, as they say, was not pleased; not pleased with, essentially, the nature of mankind." Crowley allowed himself a grin.

"But what did they do that was so wrong?" The boy wanted to know.

"Essentially, I would say that they wanted _power._ They all sought to be better than their neighbour, or father, or brother, or friend… or at least, they wanted to _seem_ better. Then came lies, which bore jealousy, which bore hatred, which bore envy, which bore adultery, which bore murder and so forth. You must remember, my prince, that these things _always_ produce each other… and you could watch the entire chain enfold without moving a finger. In the case of the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, well – within a short span of years, they both transformed into something _most definitely_ unholy, at least to Christian or Jewish standards. Mostly Jewish, anyway." Crowley tapped his chin. "Aye-aye. The _Israelites_. Weren't they the _finest_ story material of that time. A bit too holy for my taste, though, especially Abraham and his lot. Anyway – those two cities were sinning like no other, and this displeased the Almighty, they say. So Heavens sent two angels to smite the sinners; and Hell sent two demons to drag their souls down to the fiery pits of eternal agony where they belonged."

"And then they went to the house of Lot!" Theodosius exclaimed. "The angels, anyway."

Crowley raised a finger, feeling truly _scholarly _for perhaps the first time since he'd switched courts. "Ah, but my prince, there comes the trick! Because in the story I know, the envoys of Heaven and Hell never came to the house of Lot, and they never heard Abraham's desperate plea, either, to save the city if only they could find ten honest souls among them. No – the angels were there to smite and the demons to curse; they did not concern themselves with the everyday problems of _petty mortals_. A few lost souls, what was it to them? They could put them out like you put candles out by blowing gently on them. Caught in the grand scheme of things, they never noticed those few little humans who did nothing wrong and who could be saved – and let's not even talk about the animals…"

Crowley tensed, and bit his tongue. He was getting carried away; but the proverbial cat was already out of the proverbial bag and the young Emperor was drinking his every word as if he was dying of thirst; so he went on.

"Hieronymus did not lie when he told you about the two angels in the house of Lot – not entirely. In fact, only one of those two creatures was an angel; the other was one of the Fallen. A demon."

"Oh! But this is much more exciting!" Theodosius jumped up in his bed. "The angel was trying to save Lot, no? And the demon to devour him, or something…" He crooked his fingers as if they were claws, and snarled as wickedly as a fluffy-haired, plump little boy could manage.

"No," said Crowley with a very straight face. "That's not how you devour people – I mean, ah, I am the one who tells the story, all right? _We're not at the devouring part yet!"_ He let out an irritated _huff _and smoothed out an unwelcome wrinkle in his togae. "As I was saying, Lot was visited by an angel and a demon, who had both been wandering the Earth since its earliest days. They were… the representatives of Heaven and Hell on Earth. Yes, I think we can put it that way. But I am jumping forward – the angel, Israfel, was the one who heard Abraham's plea, and he set out to find ten good-hearted people in Sodom and Gomorrah and lift the sentence of God. But alas! Lot was the only one he could find. The demon was too good at all the tempting, the luring and the not-catching-the-fallen. So Israfel pleaded to his fellow angels to spare Lot and his household, at least, but nay. He spoke in vain, and Lot had to go with the rest."

"See?" Theodosius crossed his arms. "Bad angels."

"No, my prince – guilty of oversight, perhaps, but not bad. Never _bad."_

"Whatever you say." The boy raised his chin with what Crowley pictured as all the defiance in the world. "But _Israfel,_ he was a true angel, wasn't he? He saved them!"

"Well, he tried to." Crowley swallowed. It was getting difficult to talk, to _remember_. "He decided to warn Lot; and while he was running through Gomorrah, he saw – he saw the demon. Hell's envoy on Earth, that is. Now… you must understand that even if Israfel and the demon were enemies, they were acquainted, and… it is strange and remarkable and without a precedent… but Israfel pitied his enemy. And he took the demon with him. Out of the city. So he wouldn't, you know, get painfully discorporated. That is how they came to the house of Lot, where all sorts of things happened… Hieronymus must have already told you about them."

"So that's why the people outside the house were having all those unholy thoughts!" Theodosius exclaimed. "Because there was a_ demon_ in there!"

"They were quite resourceful on their own, I assure you," Crowley quipped. "…or so the lore-masters say," he added, cursing himself.

"So when Lot's family ran away, and the wife looked back," Theodosius concluded, "it wasn't because…"

"No. Israfel did not do that, and neither did the demon. It was… it was God's justice." Crowley pursed his lips. He had never understood that part. "And it was also God's justice that Israfel managed to save Lot and his family. The ones that never looked back, at least. If I were there I – I surely would _not_ have looked. Heaven's wrath, when unleashed, it is… it must be terrible."

"Well, _I'd_ look," said Theodosius. "I'd be curious." He was still staring at his tutor, wide-eyed and arms crossed, with a mixture of stubbornness and vulnerability. "And – and that demon didn't even _devour_ anyone?"

"Well – well, no!" Crowley stammered. "It must have been one of his lazy days. Or maybe he _did,_ and the lore-masters have forgotten it." He frowned. "Maybe he devoured _everyone_ just after nightfall."

"What a_ lousy _demon!" The boy snickered. "No cursing, no devouring, no setting things on fire…"

"The other demons did the job for him," Crowley said, as dignified as he could make himself sound. "I don't know, if _I _was a demon and Heaven's angels decided to smite something in my area, I would do my _utmost_ to stay out of their way. And if you would not do the same, my prince, it is because you have never seen a furious angel."

"Why, have you?" Theodosius jumped on the opportunity. _"Have you?_ Wait… Azrail…" The boy suddenly became so rigidly tense that Crowley was most unpleasantly reminded of angel Sandalphon and his favourite whim of turning people into salt. "Your eyes!" The boy all but shouted. "That's the problem with your eyes! That you saw an angel and it burned them! That's why you can't look at people – it must _hurt…"_

"Light hurts," Crowley lied out of habit, considering this new theory. He could work with it, at least for the time being, and the boy seemed to like it. Why not? The Son of Man had never come to Byzantium; and the lore of his followers, these _Christians_ was not yet widespread enough to provide a much simpler and more accurate explanation on why his eyes were yellow and snakelike. He was Azrá'il, after all: a renowned rhetor and a beloved tutor to this child. Why would anyone think ill of him…?

"My prince," he said softly, "you mustn't tell anyone what you have learned tonight. Neither the extended story of Sodom and Gomorrah, nor the bit about my eyes. _Especially not_ the bit about my eyes. We're friends, after all, are we not?" He flashed a conspicuous grin at the young Emperor.

"You're my best friend, Azrail," Theodosius whispered. "And you saw _a real angel!_ Which one was it?"

"I might tell you one day," said Crowley, and he almost meant it. "Now…" He tilted his head. "You promised me that you would sleep, as difficult as it might seem after all this excitement." He pushed the boy back in his bed and pulled the covers on him. "But it just takes a bit of calm and ease," he continued, caressing his temples softly. "You are, in truth, deeply exhausted – and you could go to sleep within…"

_CRACK._

"…the snap of a finger," the demon murmured as he pulled the curtains apart, just enough to leave a small slit where the morning light would come; then left the room.

* * *

**Who-is-who in this chapter:**

**Theodosius II,** commonly surnamed **Theodosius the Calligrapher,** was the Eastern Roman Emperor for most of his life, taking the throne as an infant in 402. He is mostly known for promulgating the Theodosian law code, and for the construction of the Theodosian Walls of Constantinople.

**Israfil** (Arabic: إِسْـرَافِـيْـل ,) alternately spelled **Israfel** or **Esrafil** is the angel who blows into the trumpet before Armageddon and sometimes depicted as the angel of music. He is commonly thought as the counterpart of the Judeo-Christian archangel Raphael (but this reference is not entirely proved). In this story, Crowley will mostly refer to Aziraphale by this name, because within context, it is much less suspicious than his original one (but quite similar).

**Abraham **and **Lot **are both biblical figures.


	3. Through the Smoke

**The next day**

The pontoon bridge was the last drop, really.

The last time Aziraphale had seen Arelate, it was no more than a small military settlement of the sixth Roman legion, transforming into a stable community with the influx of veterans. Then, by siding with one Iulius Caesar – _that absolute douche!_ – in the upcoming civil unrest, the city of Arelate was richly rewarded; and it somehow managed to keep its status despite the downfall of its most influential providers (which was, in Aziraphale's opinion, a remarkable accomplishment in itself).

Today, Arelate covered an impressive ninety-nine acres and it had its own amphitheatre, triumphal arch, Roman circus, aqueduct system and a circuit of impressive walls. One side of the city faced the sea, and the other side was embraced by a loop in the river Rhone. If you looked at Arelate from far enough (and a little above), you could mistake it for an island – an island of wealth and security in an era where you could not take a step outside a fortified city without having a band of Goths, Vandals, Huns or rebel peasants pull their knives at you.

Today, Arelate was only one among the capitals of the crumbling Western Roman Empire (when Aziraphale had last counted, there were four of them), but the _only_ one with a substantial military force, sufficient stocks and ways of supplying... not to mention, a competent leader who might even listen to Aziraphale if he pulls the right strings.

To be able to meet and persuade him, however, Aziraphale needed to cross that blasted pontoon bridge first. He had not seen one since Egypt, and it revoked rather unpleasant memories of frequently rebuilt irrigation systems and the occasional intrigue to control them, usually followed by fires, screams and unrest. Perhaps a few knives in a few throats, too; work of the demon Crowley, most likely, or one of his _associates_.

The knife in the throat was more like Ligur.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, stepping on the bridge with mild annoyance. The river-water swirled wildly below him, a slick, grey-green concoction of uprooted algae and drift: remainders of yesterday's thunderstorm. Aziraphale knew that the bridge did not truly float on the water; it was supported by tons of wood (and perhaps iron, too), but it was loose and ever-moving, swaying gently to follow the motions of the river, lest the current would break it. Occasionally, the angel came across a gap in the bridge, but there was always a draft-boat within reach that he could use.

The cross was remarkably well built for such rapidly changing, dangerous times, and Aziraphale wondered briefly if he was heading into a trap. Pontoon bridges were a sign of war, after all: always temporary, always thoroughly watched. Had he not been careful enough to remove Emperor Honorius's insignia from his cloak before he came here, he would surely be filling up recorporation files in Heaven by now...

_Could this all be Crowley's work, too?_ Aziraphale wondered, as he stepped off the bridge, finally on the territory of Constantinus the Third (Usurper yesterday, Imperator Augustus today), and pulled his hood off, trying not to think about the strands of hair that stuck most ungracefully to his forehead.

It_ looked _like demonic intervention, for sure. Four self-made Emperors waging war against one another; three different Goth tribes fighting each other and three of the four Emperors at the same time; five different Vandal groups fighting the Goths and the Romans simultaneously; and the Huns sacking the few cities everyone else forgot... _devilish_ chaos and destruction, at its finest. There were humans Aziraphale failed to save, dying every minute, every fraction of a second. But there was little one angel could do against such deep-rooted envy and hate, such a desperate chase of empty titles. Because what was Honorius, or Constantinus, or Constans, or _what-was-his-name-number-four_ Emperor of...? Ashes and bones, mostly. The Goths realized that much, at least, but they did not care – and that made Aziraphale sadder than he had been in a very long time. So sad that it turned to a low-burning, heart-wrenching, helpless _anger;_ and once it became anger, it was no longer helpless.

Aziraphale, upset as he was, had given the matter careful thought. He had battled with himself for three days and three nights before concluding that he would best take a direct approach and sort things out with the enemy, face to face; and so he left the court of Emperor Honorius and travelled around Ravenna, Rome and the provinces. He even sneaked into the camps of Goth leaders and eavesdropped on a council of Vandalic warlords; but he never found a single clue, he never heard a single _word_ that could have suggested the presence of Crowley, nor did he see the demon throughout his journeys. Not even once.

Aziraphale's thoughts kept returning to that simple truth: that Crowley was missing – _or could he have forsaken his corporeal form? That would be against the Rules... even Hell must have those. Or could he have grown tired of earthly existence? Did Hell replace him with someone else? A more vicious demon?_

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, turning his attention back to the – undoubtedly impressive – landscape of Arelate. All demons were equally vicious; and he was facing _Crowley_ here. That was the only feasible explanation. _But where was he?_

In the past, the demon had never been disturbed by Aziraphale's presence – in fact, they very often lived in the same area. Mesopotamia… Egypt… Iudea… Athens… Galilea… for Heaven's sake, they have eaten oysters in the City of Rome! _Together._ They were acquaintances – not friends, of course, as angel and demon could never be friends -, but _acquaintances_. Crowley had never exactly been _unfriendly_ to him – unlike other demons -, and since that dreadful affair in Sodom and Gomorrah, he seemed to do his utmost to stay out of Aziraphale's way as long as he stayed out of his.

Their meetings, scarce as they were, felt like catching up on a rarely seen colleague; often drenched with wine, sprinkled with the finest food of whatever Age they were in, and filled with surprisingly _pleasant_ conversation. Yes; over the course of centuries, Aziraphale came to accept that he wasn't exactly _hostile_ to the idea of dining with Crowley and listening to his banter, to all the funny inconveniences he tended to generate around himself. Crowley had the most wonderfully _amusing_ stories about escaped livestock, suspicious money gains or royal love triangles; but never plague, or death, or murder. He seemed to be thoughtful enough to keep those parts to himself – and_ angelic_ as he was, Aziraphale secretly enjoyed discussing rumours.

Not that he was strictly _missing_ these occurrences, to be sure; but meeting Crowley would have made things so much easier right now. He could simply ask him what he was up to, or perhaps follow him around, and find the heart of the storm, so to speak. The time, the place and the _way_ to help and heal. To restore the Roman Empire to its former glory, to save the culture, the architecture, the language, the food, _the libraries,_ the way of life these good people have devised so carefully and preserved for so long; before it would all crumble helplessly into yet _another_ cycle of destruction. Resourceful as humans were, Aziraphale doubted that they could ever build another Rome, or even something that could come close.

* * *

It was the end of summer, halfway through the eighth month of the year, but the closer Aziraphale got to the city, the deeper he dived into a blanket of smoke. Most of it flew up North, where the wind blew, but the nearby valley swallowed the rest, making his walk to the Emperor's settlement slow and tedious. Aziraphale had always found it most unbecoming to cough, so he repressed his bodily urge of breathing while he crossed the worst of the smoke (it made his eyes tear up, though). He noticed that chariots, boats, plows and other human tools were burning – but as far as he could see, they did not look like the ones used by Romans.

"Who is there?" Asked a hard, battle-worn voice of a guard.

Aziraphale straightened his back. "Centurion Israfel, from the…" His breath hitched. "Oh no, forget it! I am done with _that._ Old habits die hard, I'm afraid." He flashed what he hoped was a confident smile and tried to ignore the lance pointed at his chest. "My dear boy, before you put that through my heart, you might want to inform my friend Sarus. He must have been expecting me for a long time now."

The lance wavered, then fell back. "Come," said the soldier. "If you are not the one you claim to be, you will burn, too." He nodded towards the centre of the smoke, then gestured at Aziraphale to follow him.

After ten trudging minutes of trying to make conversation with the guard and failing miserably at it, the angel noticed that the ground was beginning to rise, and the smoke to thin. The cityscape of Arelate blossomed below them – a many-petalled flower weaved of shadows – , and then, as they stepped out of the cloud of smoke and ruin, Aziraphale greeted the full view with a surge of relief.

"Pretty, eh?" The soldier stopped abruptly, as if genuinely surprised at having spoken something other than a command. "I see this every morning."

"Then you are truly lucky, my boy," Aziraphale smiled. "It is spectacular."

The soldier dropped his head. "Rome was better," he said. His voice was barely stronger than a whisper, but Aziraphale heard it; and his smile faltered. He could not agree more. Rome was better… and Rome was _over._

Well. Maybe not _yet,_ but the end would come soon, as it always had, because that was the fate of human realms: to crumble one by one, devoured by Time and the ineluctability of restarting cycles. And as far as Aziraphale could tell, the soldier knew all this, and he mourned the fall of Rome – he mourned something that had not yet come to pass.

Human beings were truly exceptional sometimes.

* * *

When it turned out that "No-Longer-a-Centurion-Israfel" was, in fact, _almost_ exactly who he claimed to be, he found himself in the sitting room of a military settlement, sipping watered wine. It was perhaps a little brash to have helped himself to it all alone, but his journey had been long and exhausting; the least he could do for his host was to refresh himself a wee bit before they talked, _wasn't it…?_

"Centurion!" A familiar voice boomed, and Aziraphale suddenly found his arm clasped in the less-than-formal greeting of his friend Sarus. "I knew that you'd come crawling… took you long enough." Aziraphale's arm was abruptly released and the commander's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. "Now let us hear your preferred method of execution!"

"I gave it a bit of a thought…" Aziraphale gave a solemn nod. "I'd hate to disappoint you, but I found that it would perhaps compliment me more to stay alive."

Sarus was a tall, hard man, broad of shoulders and booming of voice; yet he answered softly, almost gently. "Well-well. What a strange turn of chance – I happen to think likewise. You know what you have to do…"

"I have already done it." Aziraphale sighed. "I have forsaken my rank and left. Arrows in my back, and all… but I did not, even for a blink of an eye, feel like a traitor, as I stay true to a greater cause. Honorius is no longer fit to be an Emperor, not with that Gothic king threatening Rome and its allies. Therefore, I came to the only one who has the force and the potential to protect our beloved Realm… to restore it, if only to buy it a little bit of time… and the _one_ true Emperor who can do that is Constantinus. If he will have me."

"You have always been far-sighted for your status," Sarus said thoughtfully. "I grant you that… But the Realm, Israfel? Seriously? Can you see a _realm_ here? This is Gallia, and we should content ourselves with it. Anyone who tells you otherwise hasn't met the new Vandalic raider troops yet." Sarus gave an irritated shrug, as if trying to brush off an insistent horsefly. "We don't have the numbers, lad… take that from a _magister militum_ who has learned to count further than a hundred."

"So Constantine gave you the title!" Aziraphale took a sip of wine, raising his glass in a gesture of blessing. "But that is simply wonderful, my friend! I suppose I should congratulate."

"Clearly, you should." Sarus squinted. "Why do I sense an '_and yet'_ lurking behind all the warmth and ceremonial praise, then?"

"Because – well, may I ask how Stilicho took the news? It must have been a _grand_ decision for him to leave the ranks of Honorius, and I thought…"

Sarus laughed. "Ah! Good old Stilicho. I should have known you'd rather have a word with him than not. Not very talkative these days, though… but I suppose you should see it for yourself."

With that, he rose and Aziraphale followed with slow steps, unable to shake some strange, weighty feeling of apprehension. Angels could _sense_ evil wherever they went; but this was only good old Sarus – perhaps snarky at times, perhaps hardened by years of fighting and peril, but not _evil_ – never evil!

"Here," said Sarus as they came around the corner; and Aziraphale came, only to stop dead in his tracks a moment later. He felt his heart accelerate, and a strange sensation flooded his mouth.

He recognized it a moment later as bile.

"This is very much unlike you, Sarus," he said sharply, looking away from the blackened skull and the few strands of hair that still stuck to it. He considered taking it off the lance it had been impaled upon and giving it a final blessing, but it would have been too much; he was no priest, after all.

Currently, in fact, he was no more than an unhorsed Roman soldier. Even if he had never been much of a soldier, either.

"Ah," said Sarus nonchalantly, "this? It wasn't me."

"Then what happened?"

"Common mutiny. His men found some brains in themselves, and Stilicho would not follow." Sarus frowned, then bowed his head slightly. "He serves as a reminder these days, I suppose. I do visit sometimes. Grown soft over the years, you could say."

"This is not proper," said Aziraphale. "We are men of God…"

"Ah, the god with the cross, who claims himself Almighty? The Emperor is. _I_ am not."

"Well, any proper _magister militum _should be! This is what raises us, Romans above Goths and Vandals – valour and honour and fraternity…"

Sarus threw back his head and laughed. "Speak to me like that and I'll put your puffy blonde scalp up there, too."

"No," said Aziraphale softly, "you won't."

They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, engaged in wordless combat; then the warlord sighed.

"Right. I am taking you into my lot and offering you my trust… I am bringing you in front of the Emperor… but then, no more favours. You've had your share." Sarus shook his head. "You insistent bugger," he added, more out of habit than honest sentiment.

"If you do all that, it is I who shall be indebted," said Aziraphale casually. He took a step forward, but Sarus did not move.

"The night you saved me…" he said slowly, uncertainly.

"Oh dear, let's not talk about _that _now, shall we?" Aziraphale sighed. "It was _dreadful._ Weren't they your people…? The way they turned against you…"

"I wanted _negotiations."_ Sarus's voice was firm. "Alaric didn't. You know the story… but how did you do it, Israfel? Just… _how?_ I shouldn't have survived. It was impossible."

"You had luck, my dear fellow." Aziraphale smiled. "Everyone has _luck_ sometimes."

"No, it wasn't that. Your god helped us that night. And mine… they were silent. All of them." Sarus swallowed. "I keep wondering, you know… why would your god give a rat's arse about _me?"_

"God belongs to everyone," said Aziraphale gently. "Come now, I wish to speak to your Emperor." He frowned. "Do you think I could convince him to let me, uh, bury my friend? We… I mean, where I come from…"

"…people are idiots." Sarus nodded. "I know. You don't even burn your dead properly."

"Nevertheless, I would appreciate if…"

"Do whatever you want. Good old Stilicho has already taught us all the lessons he could. And he _stinks_."

"He was a good man," said Aziraphale softly. "I hate to see him like this."

"Aye-aye," Sarus snorted. "Full of speech about the Restoration of the Empire and such. He was a good military man… but he should not have taken it on himself to be the next Great Rhetor of the century, too. His men could smell the shit in the wind." Sarus rolled his eyes, and Aziraphale mused delightfully at the nature of untranslatable Gothic idioms.

And then, just as he thought that their conversation was over, his friend spoke again.

"I agreed with him, by the way. I am no Roman, will never be, but I can appreciate virtue when I see it. And your lot are good fighters. Better than us. That's why I left Alaric's ranks… we are kin, but I'd rather die than to fight by his side ever again. He has a penchant for destruction – which is not bad in itself, if you ask me, but Alaric never builds anything instead of whatever he destroyed last. And Rome…" Sarus shook his head. "I've seen it, you know, when I was a lad. And I wish to walk there again… I want it to be a capital again… and I want a sole Emperor again… but it can't happen. Constantinus won't have it. He's not in for the grandeur and the dramatics… he loves his own people best." Sarus laughed abruptly. "You have no idea how many men had already tried to tempt him into pursuing the Greater Good, and such. All in vain… Israfel? Are you listening to me at all?"

"Why, but of course, my friend," Aziraphale stammered, and they went on their way.

To lie was to sin; but Aziraphale was not even aware of the fact that he had sinned. He heard the same word in his thoughts, over and over, taunting and luring; whispering promises of success, of glory, of a greater tomorrow.

He had never done it before, though – it was wrong. It was _forbidden_. Angels did not do such things; it was strictly against their nature. They probably could not do the deed even if they tried…

And yet the solution was so simple, so compelling, so _evident_ that it remained a complete wonder why Aziraphale had never thought about it before.

Maybe he _had to _do it, just this once. Not selfishly, of course, but for a Great Purpose. For an elevated, Noble Cause. To save Rome.

_Tempting_.

* * *

**Who-is-who in this chapter**

_**Constantinus**__ or __**Constantine III**__ was a Roman general who declared himself Western Roman Emperor in Britannia in 407 and established himself in Gaul (Gallia)._

_**Flavius Honorius Augustus**__ was Western Roman Emperor from 395 to 423. He was the younger son of emperor Theodosius I. During his reign, Rome was sacked for the first time in almost 800 years. Even by the standards of the rapidly declining Western Empire, Honorius's reign was precarious and chaotic._

_**Flavius Stilicho**__ was a high-ranking general (magister militum) in the Roman army. After many years of victories, a series of political and military disasters finally allowed his enemies in the court of Honorius to remove him from power, culminating in his arrest and subsequent execution in 408._

_**Sarus**__ or __**Saurus**__ was a Gothic chieftain and commander for the emperor Honorius. He was known for his hostility to the prominent Gothic brothers-in-law Alaric I and Ataulf. In 408, after the fall of Stilicho, Sarus's name was put forward as his successor for the office of magister militum in praesenti (supreme commander), but the Emperor Honorius refused to promote him. It is possible that his resentment of Honorius, as borne out by later actions, started here._

_Today, __**Arles**__ (Latin: __**Arelate**__) is a city and commune in the south of France, in the Bouches-du-Rhône department, of which it is a subprefecture, in the former province of Provence._


	4. The Art of Temptation

**Three days later**

Perhaps Aziraphale had been doomed to failure from the very beginning: from the moment he gave his sword away. At times, he could still remember its heat on the skin of his palm – much harder and grittier today, yet just as sweaty and trembling as in the heat of that momentum. Aziraphale was used to the feeling now – reaching out to summon something he no longer had, then giving even more of himself away, feeling guilty and unsatisfied that he could not help more, chastising himself for thinking that it was perhaps not the flaming sword that would have made all the difference…

The sword had been forged of the strongest steel and perhaps starlight, but it gave him no power over the world, or even himself; at least, he failed to see why it _should_. The sword was, as it had always been, a weapon to wield; and whenever Aziraphale reminded himself of the firm, righteous conviction, the overwhelming sense of_ justice_ he'd felt upon handing it over to the first Man and his Wife, he had to swallow a humourless laugh.

(There were days when he could stomach it and other days when he could not; and those days, he _actually_ laughed at himself, if not very happily).

Not that he could blame the stupid, naïve Guardian of the Eastern Gate, to be sure – at that time, things were still simple and two-sided. Day and night. Hot and cold. Dark and light. Good and Evil… mostly Good, anyway, since the Children of God were inherently _Good_, and they naturally despised _Evil_. Only… no one knew what evil truly _was_.

Aziraphale, at least, could not claim to have ever seen the true face of Evil, not until he had walked the cities of men before the Flood.

His first-ever encounter with 'Evil' supposedly occurred upon the very walls he had been guarding since the beginning of Time, when the demon Crawly rested beside him, and asked most casually about the absence of that blasted sword; and it was the fact that Aziraphale had given it away that lighted the first spark of their mutual, albeit reluctant interest. Whatever Aziraphale had done wrong must have sprung from there: his original sin of… _pity?_

Of _doubt?_

Of equipping God's youngest children with the only weapon in sight, for a dangerous journey into the complete unknown…?

_Didn't you have a flaming sword?_ The memory of Crowley's – then Crawly's – voice whispered, mocking him, taunting him. _It was flaming like anything, what happened to it?_

"I gave it away," Aziraphale muttered to himself, almost jumping as the memory of Crawly's amazed _YOU WHAT?!_ echoed through whatever memories travel in. "I gave it away, and it was well done. It was what my heart told me to do. You have always got to do what your heart tells you." He remembered wondering if Crawly had one, then settling for the conviction that it would be rude to ask.

_You're an angel,_ the memory of Crawly's voice hummed in his head. _I don't suppose you can do the wrong thing_.

And that, as Aziraphale now understood, was demon talk at its finest. You could take that statement and explain it in a way in which it was true, then another way in which it wasn't; and _then_, you could take the opposite of the same statement and do likewise without missing a beat. _Because,_ Aziraphale mused, observing a long fissure on the ceiling, _what counts as 'the wrong thing' in the current situation?_ After all, he had just tried, entirely on his own whim, to tempt a usurper into claiming ownership of the_ entire_ Western Roman Empire… and he had failed so spectacularly that Sarus offered him three entire bottles of "liquid solace". He had tried his best, though – eloquent arguments of honour and valour, enunciation of divine duty and sound judgement, all in order, all clean and righteous. _You should be the lance that cuts the chords of inequity, the torch in the darkest of nights, the saviour of Rome and its lore,_ and so forth. The longest speech he has ever uttered, sprinkled with wit and dipped in grace, his face lighting up and his eyes twinkling with Faith.

And Constantinus had laughed. So had his servants and generals and even some of the _guards,_ for Heaven's sake… (though not Sarus).

All things considered, Aziraphale's Temptation proved an utter and complete failure – and in that sense, Crawly was right. He was an angel, and thus inherently unable to do the wrong thing, even if it did not seem _wrong_ at all. Divine justice and righteous anger – were they not _tempting?_ Were they not something to die for?

_There must be something here,_ Aziraphale realized, _something I do not understand, or something I have forgotten. It should have worked. Temptation is temptation, and if it is backed up by the right cause, I should be capable of it. Flaming swords can kill, after all, and to kill is to sin… yet never I have killed with my sword. Never I have taken a life. Still, it was an instrument of mine, and as such, it could not be Evil – so what is amiss?_

Aziraphale sat up in bed and walked to the window – Constantinus housed him in his own palace and one night of ridicule was not enough to have him thrown out of it – and looked out to the narrow streets of Arelate. They were draped in moonlight, and they were gleaming in ways that reminded the angel of Ancient Greece in its glory days: of the very same moon but a different sea, different winds and smells; and quite possibly, the only lecture Crawly had ever given anyone on the nature of Wrongdoing.

_I do barely anything myself, angel. I make people do it. If presented with an opportunity to be their own God, they will always beat me to it... I could never think of all those clever ways to make them suffer: they devise all themselves. I do not pretend to have answers to their questions – I only ask more. Is that right? Is that wrong? Are you sure? Should it be that way? Are you God? Am I God? Is God God to all of us?_

Aziraphale stopped short on the memory of sand, expecting the memory of sea wash over the memory of them in wrath over such an overt expression of blasphemy. But the night was silent an unchanged, and the city slept.

_Think of it this way – you have a handful of wheat and you need to feed a village for the next hundred years to come. What do you do? You could sow those seeds yourself, watch them grow and water them with your own sweat, but would that not be much ado for nothing? The result would remain dependent of you; you would have control over it, but all would remain limited to your own ambitions and desires. Which is to say, you would need to watch over each blasted strand of wheat until the end of this blasted world. Boring!_

_So what you do is show Man how to sow wheat and how to take care of it; and you make him believe that there is nothing more to life than sowing wheat. Man will set to it with all his might and ingenuity – believe me, Man has that – and he will grow fields so large and so rich that you shan't see the end of them. That is how Temptation works, angel. Wheat. You sow it, water it, throw it into the wind, and see what comes out of it_.

"Easy for you to say," Aziraphale told the moonlight and the wind. "Words flow from your lips like a river, and even _you_ believe them sometimes. But I am not made for such things, and I don't understand why I am turning to your devious ways. I wield the Light of Heaven, a force so bright and terrible that it could shake the very foundations of your Hell – then why should I chase signs down the road to Temptation?"

_Am I not tempted myself? Tempted by your wit? Tempted by the fact that you only ever ask questions, yet you seem to have answers to mine? Is this you pervading my mind? Could it be?_

"Where are you, old serpent? I haven't seen you since – since Ages. Since those oysters in Petronius's restaurant; and even then, you were not yourself. You barely spoke to me… no wit, only bile. No funny little comebacks that would make Sandalphon smite you and Gabriel wrinkle his nose in oh-so-righteous disgust. I could all but see through you as if you were a shadow, a ripple in the fabric of Time and Space. Did you even hear what I told you about the public baths, and how I messed up the entire aqueduct system in Gorsium? I didn't want to – Heaven knows I only wanted to help, but it backfired. I should have known it would, because it seems that whenever I try my hand in architecture, a little chasm of Hellish chaos breaks loose. Funny, eh, the effect I have on your department sometimes...?"el

_I haven't heard you laugh since Gomorrah, and I haven't seen you smile since – since as long as I remember. Maybe the Eastern Wall: you forgot yourself there, and you smiled, perhaps because it was still the beginning of time, and neither of us cared that much anyway. Then I was given punishment and you commendation, and it brought us to the same place: to the world of Men. I still do not know what to make of that, and you don't either; you cannot fool me, no matter how clever you make yourself seem. I know you are just as clueless as I am._

"Where are you, Crowley? Did you sow all these seeds, or did they bud and grow themselves? Who sent the Goths and the Vandals? Who chased the Huns out of their wastelands? Who divided the Empire, who put doubt in the hearts of men? Was it you, or Hastur, or Ligur, or all your black-hearted lot? Was it a higher authority? Is this the end of the world, or is it only my world ending again?"

_It is hard to go on, and I know it is hard for you, too. You had loved the Earth before the Flood – as much as you can love anyway – and you had to grit your teeth and close your fists lest you'd look back to the city of Gomorrah. If there had been anything left of it, anything at all, you would have come back to it; and I do not know why I helped you._

"You are strange sometimes, and distant, and alien. Maybe this is how the Moon sees stars, as their light travels through all those terrible distances. Were the Moon closer, the stars would melt it, and pull it in, and the Moon would cease to be itself. Yet Moon and stars are parts of the same world – maybe not friends or distant cousins, but definitely _associates;_ and part of their essence is identical. Our bodies are mere vessels, and we do not always fit in. We carry morsels of the same overwhelming power, power that is too large for us to rule or comprehend. Sometimes, we call for its aid, snapping our fingers and wishing our everyday grievances away; and sometimes we are tools to that Power, and we let it flow through us, guided by the will of Above and Below. I know no other being who wields such terrible, _terrible_ Power, yet who remains so utterly helpless: it is, as it had always been, only you and I, and no one to compare. No one to share our burden."

_I have compared myself to you before, although I have never told you about it; and I have found that we are alike in many ways. Sometimes, when we stretch our fingers to bless and curse, they are so close that they could touch. One day, the Earth shall move or the wind shall blow too forcefully, and we will mix it all up. The world will end in a cacophony of Good and Evil and we will no longer know who did what. Now here I am – more tempted than tempting. Where are YOU, old enemy?_

"The seed of doubt you sowed in me has budded long ago, and it is now stronger and more verdant than grass in the Garden of Eden. I want to _know,_ to _reach,_ to _comprehend,_ and I have trouble grasping the absolute, the ineffable. Never I have been so close to playing God and Falling myself. Maybe that was your plan all along – oh, the commendation it would get you! Oh, the glory of seducing an angel! You must wish for it, you must think of it to the point of obsession – but you are no fool and you know a two-edged sword when you wield one. This could go two ways; I could Fall or you could Rise (although no one has Risen before), you pull me to the Dark and I pull you to the Light. If only you could say the word… if only I could take your hand… but you will never speak, and I will never reach."

_You told me that you changed your name, I don't know why. It did not change much – a slight difference of sound – yet it feels strikingly different, like finding white wine in a flask that is supposed to contain the finest red. Why would you change it? The snake has always been there in you, and you can still take its shape whenever you will it. Is it a different snake now? Have you shredded its skin once and for all?_

"Why, just why would you change your name? Your explanation was derelict, or might I say inattentive; your face the usual canvas for a wide range of irritated frowns; but that small line deepening between your brows told me how much of a façade that was. You were telling me something important there, upon Golgotha, but I was preoccupied and sad to a point teetering between total apathy and hysterical panic, and I only had eyes for the Son of Man as they clinched and battered him onto the cross, a piece of my heart shattering with each fall of the hammer."

_You met him once, you walked with him, you talked to him, and he did not smite you, did not banish you, did not even tell you off, as it seems. You never told me about it. You never tell me anything. Did it hurt you to see him die? I saw something in your eyes, they were so wide and so strange, and the next time we met, they were shaded. I might never see them again_.

"I might never see _you_ again!"

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath. The evening breeze caressed his hair and his reddened cheeks, cooling the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. Did he just make all those doubts real by speaking them aloud? Or were they real enough anyway? He could not tell – what he _could_ tell, on the other hand, was that he could not allow himself to tarry. He had an Empire to save; and since Crowley was not here to help him with it, he had to content himself with the memory of his voice.

_Sow the seeds. Watch them grow_.

Aziraphale frowned, then slowly, almost reverently, he nodded.

All of a sudden, he knew what to do.


	5. Confiteor

**409 AD  
Saturnalia**

"And what in the name of God you might be doing, my most beloved friend?"

"I am not your most beloved friend," said Crowley sharply. His hand wavered above a dent in the stone and the wall of the alcove began to swim in candlelight, rivulets of moisture gleaming like silver ribbons. "Not your friend, even."

"That does not answer my question," said Hieronymus. Crowley could hear the smile in his voice as the old man crossed his arms, stretching his back comfortably against the entrance of the small stone chapel.

It never ceased to amaze Crowley how a human of his age could walk without a cane.

"…the Emperor has been asking after you, you know. No one saw you at the feast."

"I will let you decide if I wasn't there, or perhaps developed an ability to become invisible."

Hieronymus did not even miss a beat. "Well, the celebrations are going on for a week. Plenty of time for you to catch up."

At that point, Crowley decided that he was irritated.

"That is exactly what I am doing here, magister… _catching up._ With _Roman_ gods. The ones all of you should be worshipping."

He touched the second candle to the first and put it down on the other side of the small stone altar, stretching his fingers above the fire. The warmth did not reach his bones, but it was enough to make his skin tingle; and it also made the eye of the tall, lithe-shaped statue look strangely alive. Just the one, since the other had gone, as Crowley noted with something akin with indignation, _missing_.

"This is supposed to be Saturn, correct?" Hieronymus crossed the diameter of the grotto with a single step to stand beside him, glancing at the statue with a complete lack of reverence. "God of Time…"

"No," Crowley murmured. "That's Chronos. The one he is, ah, _based on,_ or so they say. Saturn is so much more. He is supposed to be the deity of planting seeds and harvesting them… of riches and gaining them… of giving and perceiving justice, whatever that means… and his Feasts have always been the highlight of the year while the Empire still remembered to celebrate them."

"Oh, but those celebrations live on," said Hieronymus gently. "Only their names have changed… that said, they hold a truer meaning today, with the Holy Spirit lighting up our souls and guiding our steps on the road to righteousness for another year." He chuckled. "Ah, and there is roasted pheasant."

Crowley scratched his nose absently, trying not to be reminded of a certain angel. He _despised_ this man, after all, and he wanted him to go away, now, didn't he…?

"_Roasted pheasant,"_ he mimicked, as pettily as he could manage. "So you Christians are finally getting down to business, eh? Tradition and conviction aside…"

"You do not strike me as a traditionalist, either way." Hieronymus's voice teetered at the edge of _surprised,_ something Crowley had never head the occasion to hear before. "Especially not a _Roman_ traditionalist, having come all the way from the wild and mysterious Persia. You either drink Faith with your mother's milk or it is granted to you by the grace of God – yet it is, in both cases, elusive; and it cannot be adopted."

Crowley spun around. "Are you judging my belief in Roman gods?

"No. I am questioning its existence."

Crowley allowed himself three seconds of dumb silence before responding. He knew that indignation would not work, as it would only encourage this despicable Christian to continue mocking him. He could not simply walk away from the confrontation, either; he was not done with Saturn yet, after all. The only viable solution would have probably been to ignore the remark, but his pride was _hurt_ – a burning feeling, like a particularly nasty blessing from Aziraphale.

So he went for condescension instead.

"Surely, a scholar of your reputation must know the difference between belief and faith," Crowley said, voice acid-sweet, his brows slightly lifted. "Belief being the driving force behind actions and rituals we deem useful from an educational, moral, material, cultural or even aesthetic point of view… and _faith_ being none of your concern." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Humanity has been making up its gods since the dawn of time: that is what gives them power. Their gods have all the might they need, all the might _humanity_ gives them. If that is no merit of worship, I don't know what is."

"So you have no faith in any God!" Hieronymus exclaimed. _"__At __all!"_

Crowley wanted to laugh.

"I never said that… but my so-called _faith,_ in its existence or nonexistence, is entirely insignificant. The Maker of the Universe is almighty, all-knowing, all-seeing, absolute, unspeakable… _ineffable… _and I am but a tiny black dot on the Maker's galactic chessboard. Would you care to know what the pawns in your set think of you? I do not believe so… Would it _matter_ what they thought? Even less. Admittance or denial would not change their fate the tiniest bit, because the rules of the game are written, and the range of possible scenarios limited."

Crowley tilted his head, relishing in the strange, uneasy look the old man gave him.

"You look down on my reverence for Saturn, because you do not believe that he watches over us, snapping his fingers at each change of season; and you go as far as saying that _I_ do not believe in him, either. How do you know? Imagination is _powerful_ if you're not lacking in it… and the god Saturn is dearer to me than you could ever understand. Who are you to say I should not remember him in this degenerate age, when our beloved Empire gets devastated by the squabble of illiterate tribes, when our language is changing, when our traditions disappear…?! The mere memory of Saturn and the glory of his Temple carries more power and significance to me than all your fool-proof, sinner-fondling religion. Saturn has been around since _long_ before you, or even the fathers of your fathers have been born – but let him be forgotten _now_ and he will be just as dead as Rome in a couple of years. So leave me now, Hieronymus… and may you find wisdom in your wake."

* * *

Saturn, strictly speaking, was a spawn of Crowley's imagination; from a time when he thought it would do the Romans nothing _good_ to have gods that loved and hated each other, conceived children, waged war, lusted after humans or flayed them alive if they were challenged in a singing competition. He thought it would be a new hothouse of Temptation, a new way to thwart Heaven's advances. So he took the gods of Hellas and twisted them and turned them, dark and mysterious and bittersweet, never enough to ease the hunger of his imagination. And then – and _then,_ before he could realize what was happening, Crowley grew attached to the idea of his creations, giving them names he remembered from before his Fall.

And no matter how carefully he devised all of them, Saturn would always remain his favourite – the god no one understood and no one truly knew; bright eyes, sharp scythe, beard tangled in stars.

_(He reminds me of you, actually,_ Aziraphale had told him once, back in the glory days of Rome; and Crowley had choked on the grapes they'd been eating.

_Not the beard,_ Aziraphale had added quickly, _and Lord, definitely not the scythe… but the, ah, you know, the general impression._

Crowley wasn't done choking).

* * *

"You think of my religion as _sinner-fondling,"_ said Hieronymus after a stretch of silence. "Now_ that _is interesting. See, the critique I am most familiar with is a mere assumption of lunatism."

Crowley was growing bored. "So?"

"_So,_ am I right in assuming that the thought of a dead man rising from Hell and walking freely once again to deliver the Holy Spirit of God is more believable to you than the thought of a sinner being forgiven?"

One of the candles tumbled over, drowning Crowley's fingers in a river of liquid wax_. "Shi…_ uh… no, I wasn't saying… I meant that you were meddling in things you could not understand. Rome is nothing to you. _Tradition_ is nothing to you. My gods are nothing to you… and you act like you know the One Great Truth. You look down on me."

"We, Christians know better than to look down on anyone," said Hieronymus smoothly.

"_You Christians_ want, oh-so-righteously, to fix things that were never meant to be fixed. To destroy Evil, to erase it from the face of the Earth… but Good and Evil can solely exist by antagonism. If you have no Evil, what can you call Good, then…? Perhaps everything. Perhaps _nothing._ You will have to redefine what Good means, and you will have to give Evil another name, because from the den of conflicting Good interests, another Evil shall rise. Actions have effects, consequences, just as forces have countering forces – if you end that, you end existence. That is what Christians want?_ To end existence?"_

"We forgive each other." Hieronymus's voice was unbearably gentle. "And everyone else. Including ourselves. That is all it is about, truly."

"_Forgive!"_ Crowley laughed, recoiling at how hollow his voice sounded. "Very well, let's say everyone is forgiven, even the dogs buggering in your backyard. _Then what?"_

"What do you mean?"

"What do I _mean!" _Crowley mimicked, feeling properly demonic for the first time in years. "Look, I'll tell you what I _mean_. Take this…" He tore a pendant from his belt (gift from the Persian king: small, delicate thing, made from the finest sandglass), and tossed it towards Hieronymus in a way that he could not catch it. The glass shattered to pieces in front of his feet, and Crowley sank on one knee to take a glance at it.

"Oh, poor thing," he said softly. "Look at you – all broken. I kept you because you were so smooth… now all you have is edges. And _you,"_ he hissed, raising his eyes to meet the old man's, "you failed to catch it. It is now broken because of you."

"You dropped it so it would break, and prove your point," said Hieronymus.

"Ah, then it was _I_ who broke it. Or perhaps the _ground."_ Crowley sighed, then spread his arms, rather dramatically. His fingertips were brushing the walls of the grotto on the two sides. "Look, Hieronymus," he said, "let's say I forgive you! Entirely. From my heart. And I forgive myself. I forgive this broken pendant. I forgive the force that drives things to fall once they are not held. And I forgive the ground. I forgive every bloody _inch_ of this world because I'm a generous bugger of a Christian." Crowley's eyes were lit with furious yellow fire beneath their shades. "But alas! Still, this pendant shall remain broken for bloody _eternity,_ because forgiveness does not fix a _thing_. The damage is done, and it is irreparable."

"The damage is done, aye," said Hieronymus softly. "And if you tried to fix it, you would most probably fail, fingers numb and heart despairing. But if you gather all the pieces and find a proper craftsman, he shall work them together, one by one, and the pendant shall be whole again."

"Full of cracks," said Crowley.

"And new surfaces. And depths. Perhaps one of those cracks could reveal the real beauty of the pendant. Or perhaps the craftsman will melt the glass instead of working it together, and make something entirely new, out of the same essence. Who knows?"

"That will not restore the pendant into its original quality," said Crowley. "Which proves my point, really. Things might be forgiven, but they cannot be _undone_."

"Nor should they be." Hieronymus was looking at him with interest. "Our sins make us who we are, Azrá'il. Sometimes we do terrible things… but _terrible_ is often close to _wonderful, _if you ask me_. _What is it that you've done, my friend? What deed could be so wrong that the mere thought of _forgiveness_ is unimaginable to you?"

"I've never said…" Crowley pursed his lips. "It doesn't matter. 'S none of your concern. I could not be forgiven, not even if I were to beg for it on bloodied knees." He swallowed. "Not even if the world was ending. So it's all kind of pointless, you see."

"If you thought it was pointless," said Hieronymus, "you would not be here, seeking out good old Saturn."

Something flared in the hollow of Crowley's chest.

"_Right!"_ He snarled. "Lay your Christian forgiveness on me, then, if that makes you feel holier!"

For a couple of seconds, they stared at each other wordlessly, chests heaving; then Hieronymus took Crowley's hand, and held it to his heart. He was smiling, ever so softly, and the wrinkles were deepening around his eyes.

For a moment, he looked much more like Saturn than Crowley ever had.

And then, the talking started.

* * *

At first, it was no more than a slight, lurking sensation that made the hairs on Crowley's neck stand up. Then, it turned into a much more _straightforward _urge to run away as fast as his legs could carry him; and_ then_ into an unexplainable yearning to stop time and just take a long, calming breath.

The third _ego te absolvo_ felt like a bolt of lightning along his spine, and all Crowley sensed was alarm, alarm, _alarm_, and then –

"_AHHH! Ssssssstop! What do you ssssssssssink you're doing, foolissssssh human?!"_

_Shit,_ thought Crowley as he jerked himself backwards, making the statue of Saturn tumble gracelessly over. _Shit, shit, shit!_

How did this happen?! It was unspeakable. Inexplicable. Impossible.

It should not have worked. This was only a frail, mortal human being, old and thin and weak.

_It should not have worked_… only, it _did._

It hurt.

It _burned_.

Was this old man an _angel _in disguise? Sandalphon, perhaps? No – Sandalphon would not have bothered to indulge in philosophical banter with those two remaining brain cells of his. Uriel, then? No… a bit too much salt for Uriel, also, not straightforward enough. _Michael?_ Oh no – Michael would have sported a prettier face. And Gabriel would never wear a wrinkled toga like this.

_Just your average petty mortal,_ Crowley decided as he watched Hieronymus stare in shock. Not that the thought calmed him very much – it was, at best, terribly confusing. Were humans getting _angelic powers_ now…?

It had certainly happened before, if not very often, at the dawn of remarkable events. Future saints… prophets… eldest sons… perhaps kings… but _this _was just an old priest who wrote terrible poetry in Aramaic and made the court listen. What was the_ point…?_

"How…" Hieronymus croaked, and Crowley collected himself.

"You will _not_ do that to me," he said in a low voice. "Ever again. Understood?"

"Why did you…" Hieronymus shook his head. "What happened? You looked… hurt."

"Scorpion," said Crowley, and very conveniently so, the aforementioned creature scurried away around their legs, making Hieronymus recoil with a speed that defied his age. "I am taking it as a sign that I should keep well away of your religion."

"Oh," said Hieronymus, a little bit breathlessly. "Well… I am sorry about your Saturn."

Crowley took a brief glance at the statue – fallen from the altar, head separated from torso, scythe in pieces, now _both_ eyes missing.

"S alright," he said, as carelessly as he could manage, "I'll commission a new one. I'm sure Anthemius knows someone who knows someone… you understand."

Before Hieronymus could reply, a shadow fell on the ground before the entrance.

"_There you are,"_ said Anthemius himself, in a tone that made Crowley stir and look at him. "Come with me at once, both of you. There is – there is a _setback_."


	6. A Dark and Stormy Night

It was the epitome of a dark and stormy night, the kind of which inspired poets and made Emperors reconsider their decisions. There was no rain, no flood and no wind; only the distant rumble of thunder far overseas and a tacit army of clouds gathering on the horizon, majestic and threatening. It was close to the midnight hour, and the Moon was getting downwards on its celestial path, drawing rays upon black-navy skies, as if mimicking the Sun...

…at least, this is how Hieronymus had explained the phenomenon in his latest piece of poetry – one he was exceedingly proud of, written as it was in clear elegiac couplets. He could not remember the last time he had witnessed such a natural harmony between beauty and danger, darkness and light, storm and quiescence…

The occasion _definitely _called for another composition, he deemed.

Hieronymus was used to people poking fun at him for his not-so-solemn appreciation of nature and its Powers, but he never gave them much thought. His concern was to find Good in God's children and help it resurface, not to emphasize their faults… _that_ would have been too easy.

Hieronymus often let people think that he was old and useless, easy and stupid: he was ready to do anything to ease the general wariness that God's servants generate around themselves. And he was quite good at it. Even Azrá'il had accepted his blessing, after all, convinced though he was that it would do nothing…

…only to be startled by a scorpion at the _exact_ moment when Hieronymus was about to give him the Divine Absolution.

How strange.

The priest furrowed his brows, diving deep into the surging pond of his thoughts. He dared not go as far as assuming that the scorpion had been sent by God himself, but he did not believe in coincidences, either; not _really_. There were too many strange circumstances involved, too many obscure turns of chance. Even if he managed to work up perfectly innocent explanations for all of them, he would still need to find out what Azrá'il did that made him think he was unforgivable; and why he seemed to love the god Saturn so much.

Azrá'il had always been a mystery to Hieronymus, after all: he wore dark robes even at the height of summer, he had to shield his sensitive eyes from the light of sun and moon alike and very often, he expressed views that would have shocked – or at least, deeply unsettled – any proper man of faith or law. He wasn't Christian, he wasn't Jewish, and as far as Hieronymus knew, he was no Pagan of any sort, either. He had never as much as mentioned the Persian gods he was supposed to be worshipping, either, and yet – and _yet_ he had spoken of God as unique and almighty, something Christ himself had preached while he had still walked the earth.

And as much as his Regent despised him, the young Emperor seemed to be fond of Azrá'il – not only that, but he also seemed to favour him over Hieronymus.

_By far._

While he only had the chance to converse with Theodosius in their assigned hours (or sometimes over dinner), Azrá'il was often seen with him: now showing him some strange Persian tradition, then walking him in the gardens, other times giving him a spontaneous lesson on some philosophical puzzle… and yet other times the boy simply sought him out for no apparent reason. Hieronymus, on the other hand, could have never even dreamed of such a level of familiarity with the Emperor. Not for lack of trying, of course, much more because – well, because whenever he tried, nothing on Earth seemed to work out. As if Fate itself had turned against him – as if some supernatural power was thwarting his attempts.

"You're such a puzzle, Rhetor Azrá'il," Hieronymus murmured. "I wish I could unearth your secrets!"

Hieronymus might have been overjoyed to know that his wish would soon be granted - which gave him a quite illuminating life lesson on why mortal humans should be very careful with their wishes.

* * *

The storm was getting closer, and Hieronymus abruptly realized that not only his next poem was neat and ready in his head, but he was also terribly cold. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself, with special attention turned to collar and sleeves, and he made his way through the palace gardens, as swiftly and quietly as his old limbs let him.

That is how he saw Azrá'il in front of the rose bushes, sitting cross-legged in the grass, as if waiting for somebody. His long hair was tied loosely back, in a most _un-Roman-like_ fashion… and the shades he usually wore on his eyes were lying idly behind him on a rock.

Hieronymus stared, then forced himself to go on, then sneaked back to stare some more. _Oh Lord,_ he thought, slipping behind Anthemius's favourite fountain, _pardon me the despicable sin of curiosity._

There, that should be safe enough. Now all he should do is remain unseen…

* * *

When the first rumble shook the ground, he almost jumped. The earth cracked in front of Azrá'il's feet as if the smithies of Vulcanus were opening below, and Hieronymus was surprised to see that he did not move – he _had to _see it, did he not?

Then something dark and dreadful emerged from the weeping crack on the ground: a shadow so strange and so sinister that it seemed to dim the moonlight. Hieronymus's hand inadvertently clutched the cross pendant in his neck; he did not even dare to blink or take a breath.

"Evening, Hastur," said Azrá'il nonchalantly. "Been wondering if you'd come at all. I don't have _quite_ the time…"

The shadow took the shape of a tall man with straggly white hair and a weathered face. Hieronymus could even see his eyes: black pools of liquid menace, wide and entirely pupil-less.

"Been held up," he growled. "Got a _thing_ on me." The former-shadow-now-straggly-haired-man looked around. "I was told there would be a_ graveyard_ here, not bushes – and what is that white buggerall over there?"

"The Emperor's Palace," said Azrá'il helpfully. "Where I live."

"Bit fancy for a demon, innit?"

Hieronymus mouthed _'demon' _with horror-tainted interest, and Azrá'il shrugged.

"Keeping up appearances. You know how it goes."

Hastur frowned. "I don't care. And now, demon Crowley, let us hear your deeds of the day."

The demon – _Crowley? _Was it Crowley, Crawley or Craw-ly? – sighed.

"Right. Um… been spreading Paganism in this now Christian empire. A _very nice_ piece of Saturnalia is going on downtown, you should see it." 'Crowley' crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, then crossed his _legs_ and uncrossed them, then walked swayingly around Hastur, his movements reflecting sudden shifts of mood.

"_Is that all?"_

"That – _ungh_ – yeah, I believe it is. I have been most _annoyingly_ held up by a minor inconvenience… there's this idiotic priest who decided to convert me into his religion. The man almost _blessed_ me. And it _worked_." Crowley shuddered a bit. "He won't go messing around again, will he? The Son of Man."

"No, not until Armageddon."

"Good. Nice. _Great._ So what did_ you_ do, Hastur?"

"Made an entire Christian clan give up their lifestyles for debauchery. Great fun. They're questioning God now… Ah, and I brought you a job. Main office got a bit… _tetchy_. Instructions are that this entire _Roman Civilization_-business should end. The sooner the better."

"Oh, it _will_ end soon," said Crowley. "S already split in two. Or four. Or more. No one's really counting anymore." He paused, then went on, his voice shredding some of its nonchalance. "It's a shame, really. I liked tempting these Emperors around."

"No one cares if you keep this city," Hastur shrugged. "You're still Lord Beelzebub's favourite pet. Rome is the real deal. It has to _burn,_ and most of its lore should be lost, and the humans should turn against each other. You know, like good old times."

"Oh, Hastur," said Crowley in a tone that Hieronymus could best describe as _liquid honey_. "But they have _already_ turned against each other. Three Emperors are fighting for the West… or is it four now? In any case, Hell's humble servant here works night and day to foment discord and hatred. And it's all looking _great!"_ Crowley raised his arms dramatically. "My Emperor's court had guests today… envoys from two rival Western Emperors… and guess what, they were at each other's throats the whole time!"

"_And?"_

"And what?"

"Well," said Hastur, in the tone of one who has to explain why one and one made two, "and what's your _head count?"_

Crowley sighed.

"I had to step in. You understand. It would have been most _embarrassing_ if they killed each other before I could hear their news."

"_You're babbling around 'bout fomentin' hatred and no one's even died?!"_ Hastur sounded genuinely scandalized.

"That's not the_ point_ – the_ point_ is, there's a warlord in Gallia. Right? Great military man. Now… our warlord is _convinced_ that he's the Hero of Roman-kind and Rightful Ruler of the World, and he wants to unite the Empire again. So he gets his army together – _plenty of killing there, mind you." _Crowley gestured vaguely_._ "Picture… picture hundreds, _thousands_ of humans with swords and bows and all kinds of things they've invented since I've last been to North… and with the approximate mindset of Sandalphon."

"Sounds fun," Hastur admitted.

"Right it does. And the best part is that the warlord's treacherous _friends_ keep a hundred thousand Goths right in his heels!" Crowley grinned. "Or is it fifty thousand? Anyway – more than the rebel army can handle. So they'll march up to Rome and dethrone the current Western Emperor – well, one of them – all triumphant; then _boom,_ they'll get double-crossed by Goths. Or if not Goths, then other Romans. Or Vandals. If I were you, I'd wait the grand finale out on Earth, maybe get a nice set of oysters-and-wine. Like, a _quality_ evening play."

"What's oysters?"

"Oh really, you've been down in Hell for too long," said Crowley in a tone that made certain that he was rolling his eyes.

"And you've been up here too long," said Hastur with a snarl. "I can help you with that."

"How very kind."

"Ssssshut it!" Hastur's fist smote the spot where Crowley had been standing an instant ago, leaving an ugly burnt stain in the grass; but the other demon was already lurking behind him, and laughing softly.

"Come on you unholy bastard, I'll show you what oysters are."

"I haven't come all this way up to _fraternize_ with you, slick," Hastur spat. "Got an assignment to give."

"Well, I've _got it._ Go to Rome, watch it fall. Beelzebub's offering me a ringside seat."

"No, that's not _all._ Told you, main office is getting tetchy. This ain't everyday policy, slick. Or special mission material. This is a Great Plan thing. You're getting _help_ with this one."

"_You."_

"And Ligur."

"Ah," said Crowley, voice inscrutable. "What have I done to earn Satan's worst disgraces?"

"Well, we should be even." Hastur grinned wickedly. "Guess _who_ come with the Great Plan bits…"

"Angels," Crowley groaned. "Do you know who…?"

"I wasn't told. And here's the bloody problem – Ligur's been lurkin' around, and _those bastards have been swifter than us_. Any idea where the world-saving whimof that Roman warlordcould have come from?"

"Well, these humans are so _fragile_. I had a pet king in Babylon who ate too much cheese for supper, and then he saw all kinds of funny things in his dreams. He thought they came from God."

"_Satansssake, Crowley!"_ Hastur hissed. "Just put it together already! That human is being pushed by… well… _Above!_ Whatever he does, he will succeed because he has that bloody Principality helping him!"

"You mean _Aziraphale?"_ Crowley wheezed. "But that cannot be… that doesn't make _sense!_ Angels just…. they just go mindlessly around helping all kinds of idiots. They don't single out specific _people!"_

"Well, apparently this one learned how to rub two brain cells together."

"Still…" Crowley shook his head distractedly. "I get that this is a Great Plan operation, but what _exactly_ is the Great Plan element in it? That Rome should fall? Because it _will_ fall, I can assure you, and not even Aziraphale, or Gabriel, or Satan forbid, _Michael_ could miracle it back to the way it was. We could literally just go and drain all Rome's cellars while they still exist and nothing would change."

"You ask too many bloody questions, slick. That's why you Fell."

Crowley spread his arms sardonically. "Well, I can't fall any further, can I?"

"We go, we thwart the angels, we return to Hell. That's it. That's the _plan."_ Hastur grinned, sliding his tongue vindictively along his teeth. "Who knows, we might kill a few of 'em on our way, too. Like that annoying prick Aziraphale. I still remember how he thwarted you with that Jeremiah bloke and the fish…"

"Jonah," said Crowley.

"Whatever. If he'd thwarted _me,_ I'd have hunted him down and discorporated him within a _week_. And look – the bugger's still unscathed. You're growing _soft_."

Crowley was quicker than Hastur, and his backhanded slap left a scorched path of fury on the other demon's disfigured face.

"I let him go for a _reason,_ you idiot. I'd much rather have _him_ nosing me around than Sandalphon. _He wants his place,_ I can tell." Crowley blinked. "Nice tempting grounds, if you'd care to try."

"If I ever see that prick again, Satan knows I won't waste my time _tempting."_

"Right," Crowley sighed. "You'll turn into salt first."

"Go bugger yourself," said Hastur good-humouredly. Then he closed his fists. "I'll leave you now. Got things to do. We'll meet in someplace called Martius. Should be around Rome."

"Huge open field, can't miss it." Crowley scratched the back of his head. "When?"

"You'll know when. And travel the human way. No playing with time and space. No suspicious use of power. Those bastard archangels are watching."

"_Great…"_

"Oh, _yes it is."_ Hastur laughed. "You know what? Ol' Beelzebub hasn't been sniffing around that much lately and Ligur's been sent to the Goths. Some think he's a god now… And you know what he brought with himself from Below?"

"Well, probably something horrible." Crowley crossed his arms.

"_Hellfire,_ slick." Hastur was grinning wildly. "A spark of Hellfire. Oh, how we'll have _fun._ Make that annoying bastard Aziraphale eat it, hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!"

"_Hah-hah,"_ said Crowley. His hands were clinging to his cloak.

"See you around, slick," said Hastur, and with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared, leaving the other demon alone in the grass. Hieronymus watched him for a while, the rigid line of his shoulders and their occasional tremble.

And then, Crowley spit out the worst vocabulary of your average Roman pheasant in one _glorious_ whim. In a minute or two, he ran out of words, though; so when he fell to his knees and raised his arms weakly to the starless skies, he could only say –

"Curse it… bugger it… smite it!" His chest was heaving. "Stupid, _stupid _angel! _How will I get you out of this?!"_

* * *

An entire hour passed before Hieronymus dared to return to his quarters, pondering his choices – none of which he truly _had,_ in fact, if he thought about it. Who would believe that he had witnessed a demonic encounter, and behind Anthemius's bloody _rose bushes_, among all places…? And who could save him from Crowley's wrath if he knew that _he knew?_

Hieronymus _himself_ could hardly believe what he'd witnessed. The memories of Crowley and Hastur pervaded his thoughts: a constant, yet elusive presence. He seemed to remember everything they said, down to the smallest detail; but if he tried to write it down or even speak of it aloud, words failed him completely and he suddenly felt ignorant like a newborn baby.

He did not even remember what language the demons spoke in.

* * *

_A/N.: The language puzzle will be solved later :)_


	7. Jonah and the Goths

"So," said Sarus conversationally, "is this how it was, then? Same building? Same air? Same angle of light around the corner?"

He was sitting at the table where Crowley had, almost three hundred years ago now – or a very similar looking one, anyway, as the longevity of tables at inns was usually not very high – and he was drinking from a wooden cup, with his back to the spice-loaded amphoras in the corner.

"It will do," Aziraphale decided. "This was a very lovely place back then… when I first came here, that is. A mystery how it lost the popularity it had."

"Politics?"

"Most probably… still, it _is _strange to me. I mean, you can see the Colosseum, and everything. With a little leap of your imagination, you can even make out the lions and the bears."

"…and all those _nice_ Christian arms an' legs getting lacerated. The crowd cheering on…"

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "Not what I had in mind."

"Well, that's how things _were._ I can read_,_ you know, I understand what was going on."

"Reading is a treacherous thing, dear boy. Makes you forget how to believe your eyes."

Sarus slammed his cup on the table. "As if you could have seen the Persecutions yourself. What on _Earth _did you mean by that?! I swear, if I killed one of Alaric's men for all the riddles you've been saying lately, we'd run out of enemies in a week!"

"I was merely saying – well." Aziraphale made a vague gesture with his hands. _"Obviously,_ I could not have possibly been here three hundred years ago; however… You know. People talk. And I am fairly certain that both Tacitus and Ovid, or whoever you have read, were politically biased. There is more to the Colosseum than dried bloodstains under the earth: there is also the memory of devotion, and talent, and maybe an ounce of madness. Not the Nero kind, the _creative_ kind. You will not make me believe that it has never been used for harmless fun. Theatre… _panem et circenses_…"

"Whatever." Sarus shrugged. He took a generous sip of wine, then sloshed the rest around at the bottom of his cup before draining it. "Preach all the wisdom you like, Israfel, but to me, it all feels like poking a dead man with a stick."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well that's how Rome has become to me." Sarus nodded abruptly to himself. "A ghost city. Can't you feel it? This suffocating feeling. The streets are full of things that are no longer really there. I thought Rome would be more… _real,_ somehow, now that we've taken it. Wasn't much of a _taking,_ either. I thought someone would put up a _fight._ But Honorius is nowhere… and these people, they don't even care who their Emperor is anymore. They live in the past, feeding on the deeds of their ancestors. Not worth saving, if you ask me…"

"Jonah said the same thing about Nineveh," Aziraphale smiled, remembering. It _had_ been a nice success. "Still, the city was saved, and the lives of its people with it."

"I don't know the story, but I'm sure as hell it wasn't the same as before."

"No, perhaps not," said Aziraphale, hardly even hearing him.

Crowley had sat here, _right here_ for sure, at a long table like this one, only with different cracks at different places; and he, Aziraphale had told him something very stupid as a manner of greeting. He could not recall what… Well, it _might_ have involved a completely unintended punchline about tempting.

Crowley liked that, of course. Crowley had always liked people getting flustered around him, and once he _was_ flustered, Aziraphale had thought it below himself to leave, and thus admit defeat…

And Crowley had never tried oysters before, which was a shame, really. He did not even appear interested, which was downright _insulting_. And he seemed so strange and different, somehow. Aziraphale did not know _how_. Well, there were certainly his _looks_, but he changed those every other day, and Aziraphale never gave it much thought – his eyes saw deeper than skin and bones.

Only…

Crowley did not only _look_ different when they met here three hundred years ago, but he _was_ different. He _felt_ different. The stirrings of his mind and the presence of his unearthly essence _were_ different.

More sinister. More powerful. More _Crowley_… And less… less of whatever demons were made of. If Aziraphale had not been able to sense his Crowley-ness, clear as day, he would not even have recognized the shard of devil in him. Which was, strictly speaking, impossible. Crowley had Fallen, and there was no redemption for the Fallen. It simply did not exist; and Aziraphale was not certain that Crowley would _want _to be Redeemed, either.

How could he not see it, then? It was such a striking difference, such a _momentous_ occasion; and he simply did not stop to think it through.

He did not ask himself why it seemed suddenly perfectly acceptable for him – an angel – to invite a demon for dinner.

_That's the problem with you,_ Aziraphale thought. _You stock information like a library, but you never THINK._

The rest he could recall, though. Petronius and oysters.

Aye. That was a night to remember.

* * *

"What are you singing?"

"Huh… I'm sorry?" Aziraphale gave a start.

Raising his head, he saw Sarus watching him expectantly.

"You were singing something."

"Oh, surely not. I was _humming_ at best. It's just… I remembered this stupid rhyme."

"What rhyme?"

"Ah, not even a _rhyme._ It was much longer, but I've forgotten it. A small epic, you could say, although it doesn't have the meters. It's just a stupid little song my fri – ah, _acquaintance_ sang here in Rome."

"Of what?"

"Narcissus… and a cow, I think? I don't exactly remember how the cow came into the picture. He probably got bored of his own singing. It was a long time ago, but you know how it is… sometimes, you _remember._ Forgive me, I must have disturbed you."

"Do go on," said Sarus. "I like singing."

"Well, you certainly won't like _mine."_

"Nonsense! You can't go temptin' around with a song, then denying it from a friend!"

"I wasn't _tempting!"_

"Worse, then – it's treachery! Tempters, at least, _give you_ the stuff they tempted you with."

"Right." Aziraphale's face flushed. "I will _try_. But I shan't remember all the words… there might be rather annoying gaps…"

"Just go _tra-la-lah_ where you can't catch it. I'm all in for Narcissus and the Cow."

"Hm." Aziraphale straightened his back, crossed his arms in his lap, and _remembered_.

For a frightening moment, he dived into the silent vacuum of almost-memories; but then, the ghost of Crowley's voice crept into his ears, and he could almost see Petronius himself as he banged his fists into the table from laughter. But that must have been another song – that on Chiron and the nymphs, perhaps…

Slowly, drippingly, the words came.

_I was bored the other day  
\- and when poets are bored, the world will change -  
I said I'd wonder East and West  
and learn where Iuno's peacocks nest._

_hum, hum, hum, hum,_

_I fancied myself a king  
of a long-abandoned fort;  
or a hero, like Apollo  
sweet of voice, yet quick to bolt._

_and I told myself I'd see the Gods  
travel to the Edge of Time  
I'd wrestle with fauns and nymphs  
and drink all Bacchus's wine._

_I hit the road as sweet-birds sang  
crossed a river, picked a stone  
to throw; little did I know  
that all the old roads led to Rome._

_hum, hum, hum, hum_

_And I had walked a thousand miles  
saw golden Suns set and rise  
and halfway on the road to Rome  
I came across a brazen sight –_

_The gleam of a silver lake, I saw  
subtly graced by beech and myrth  
among sand and gravel I glimpsed  
a young man kneeling in the dirt…_

"Narcissus!" Sarus bellowed triumphantly.

"Aye." Aziraphale smiled softly to himself. _"My poor boy._ He was really fond of his own poetry, you know – but of course, everyone at the table was quite decently drunk at that point. So some of the next stanzas ended almost exclusively in bad words. Which the audience had very much liked, of course."

"Your friend made all that up on the spot?"

"I certainly believe so. He never finished it… but _I did._ Even if he never had the chance to hear it." Aziraphale chuckled. "I have it all written down somewhere, but I can't remember a single _line._ Strange."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Sarus said,

"This was a very good friend of yours."

"I wouldn't say so." Aziraphale shifted his weight from one elbow to the other. "I would say that he has always been a very reliable enemy."

* * *

The sun went down, then it rose. Emperor Constantinus sat on his – arguably rightful – throne, and Aziraphale escaped the clutches of consulship by no more than a hair's breadth.

Then he survived an assassination attempt by another.

There were more to come, he knew. Rumours were starting to spread about 'Centurion Israfel' who left the ranks of the – arguably usurping – Emperor Honorius; who led an army through the Alps without a single casualty; who saved General Sarus from a band of bloodthirsty Goths; and who wisely deciphered Emperor Constantinus's curious dreams.

Dreams that spoke of divine duty, and victory, and the New Age of Rome.

Dreams that bore a striking resemblance to the story of a certain prophet and a fish; dreams that spoke of an impending, sinister doom that would befall the whole world if Rome was not saved.

Dreams that whispered promises of wealth, and security, and unity, and wine that was watered less.

Dreams that made Aziraphale painfully aware of what he was doing, and that he was doing it for himself.

No, not for himself, for Rome – _he was saving Rome._

(For himself).

* * *

The most frightening thing was the _simplicity_ of it all. And oh, if Constantinus wasn't _a lot_ easier than Jonah…! It took one single dream, _one_ little nudge to the right direction and all went downhill like an avalanche. Or uphill?

Avalanches tended to go downhill, anyway.

* * *

He thought he could ask Crowley to put it all into an epic, sometime. With a nice title. Crowley was so good at titles, Aziraphale was certain he'd find one within a blink.

_The Emperor's Bait. An Age Painted Golden. Jonah and the Goths._

Not that Crowley would ever hear about this, of course. It did not even happen.

Angels did not _tempt_.

* * *

**a/n:** _I've been hoarding this chapter like some dragon for almost two weeks, hoping that it would get better. It won't._

_That poem, on the other hand, goes on and on (and on) for pages in my new paperblanks notebook. I think I got way too immersed in cutting off profanities from the end of stanzas. Well._

_'Myrth' is archaic for 'myrtle' or 'myrtus' for my fellow Latin lovers._

_Please let me know if you liked this! I've had a terrible week and I need some positivity._


	8. Epistulae Ex Ponto

_SVB REGNO IMPERATVRIS THEODOSII BVS_

_NONAE FEBRVARIAE AN. DOM. CDX_

_ FASTI LVPERCALIAE_

_That far, it was easy,_ Crowley thought.

The milk had long dried on the used vellum – once perfectly full – which drank his writing eagerly, arborescent rivers of ink running free on a soft yellowy field. Here and there, some shards of Greek and Aramaic ghosted through long-effaced layers like a hesitant wave from forgotten times; but if anything, it should have made writing easier.

It did not.

Crowley had already broken two _pennae_ by fidgeting with them, biting on them and stomping them angrily into the ground; the third one, he pulled out of his own left wing, too proud to ask for a second resupply.

The sharpened feather hesitated over the vellum for a few moments, then it returned to an upcurved piece of parchment at the edge of the desk, covered from top to bottom in letter-scraps.

Crowley stifled a curse, then pulled the parchment in front of himself, tired eyes running through the texts.

* * *

_Israfel,_

_Of all the terrible fates that could have befallen me, I am now sailing the Black Sea with a Christian (alas!), and we are carrying a secret imperial order coming from an eight-year-old child. That is Humankind for you…_

"Nah," Crowley murmured. "Too much bragging. Might not believe me."

* * *

_Aziraphale,_

_It appears that our respective Head Offices are spicing up the 'Fall of the Roman Empire' process – and while I am certain that you have already been acquainted with the scale of its importance, I confess that I would very much like you to stay out of it as much as possible. For your own sake. I cannot tell you more._

_Salutaria,_

_Crowley_

"…too friendly. What am I even thinking?!"

He tapped his chin with the tip of the feather, oblivious of the wide black spots he was leaving on his skin.

* * *

_Look angel, here is the deal: I owe you. You might not even remember it, as you have been playing saviour for all bloody creatures great and small since the dawn of our entire Satan-forsaken existence… but you plucked me out of Gomorrah and I did not forget that. I WILL NOT forget that._

_No one in Hell forgets such things, that's mostly why we don't do each other favours._

_Nice deep pit you have dug me here, eh?_

_Anyway, humiliating as it might be, you DID save me from discorporation, so you deserve this piece of information: Ligur is close to you, and he's got Hellfyre. WATCH BLOODY OUT._

_See you in one piece,_

_C_

"Satansssake, that's _compromising_. Not even Hastur would buy it." Crowley muttered to himself. The feather was between his teeth now, dancing in front of his eyes like a mischievous black flame. "Alright, Serpent, we need this to sound EVIL. Are you with me? It is an EVIL message which is meant to sound nice but is actually aimed at neutralizing… neutralizing whatever Aziraphale had gotten into by saving me from discorporation. It's no good to owe an angel. Better rule this stupid thing out before it gets too embarrassing..."

At that point, the Serpent fell silent for an undocumented amount of time, as the sharpened edge of the feather got stuck between his teeth.

* * *

_Israfel,_

_The Fall of Rome will be fun. Ligur will give Sandalphon a royal spank with Hellfyre, you watch!_

_I know you'll secretly enjoy it. And if everything goes down into a big puddle of molten asshole, I just want you to know that I – _

"Ugh."

"I have no idea how to finish that sentence and I probably shouldn't…. good start, though. Casual. Conveys information. Should mention Hellfyre only as a sidenote..."

* * *

_Angel,_

_I'm writing this atop a Bible translation. Figure that._

_I feel like there's so much to tell, although there isn't, not really. It seems like another part of the Great Plan is now set in motion – although you must already know that, since you've been on it for almost a year now, as I understand. I hope your plans with your pet Emperor are working out fine._

_I mean, I obviously don't, I'm just being civil. You know._

_Today, I got piss drunk with a Christian priest, and I developed a new theory about why the masthead is the first thing you see when a ship approaches you on the sea. You know, I assume that the Earth is round. That it is not special at all, despite everything your stupid bosses might have told you. Mark my words, it IS a planet, just like all the others. Just think about it. I've never seen the Earth from outside, but it would make so much sense._

_Stars are round, too... I remember them floating in the black void of the universe, so bright that you could drown in their light. You did not feel their heat, of course, just the sheer energy of it; and I believe that the Earth was made upon the same principle. Perhaps it's a cooled star. I bet if you dug down deep enough, you'd find some fire left._

_Anyway, when you stand on the surface of a globe, just any globe, the first thing you will see of approaching objects that are also upon the same globe are their tops. And if you remember, the first thing you see of the Sun at dawn is its top, too. As I said, it makes SENSE. D'you figure that, angel? I miss Tiberius's time, he would give you entire provinces for saying far-fetched things suchlike._

_Otherwise – the Christian priest I was talking about is called Hieronymus and I am currently devising a master plan to drown him in the sea. Not only did he try to BLESS me (ah! the audacity!) but he almost foundered the trust the young Emperor has built in me. Almost. He came very close, but thankfully, the Emperor is an eight-year-old and I am not so bad with eight-year-olds._

_Oh, and if that wasn't terrible enough to wrinkle your pretty nose, I have the impression that this Hieronymus actually has a very good idea who I am. It is worrying, you know, like the Noah and Moses and Isaiah and Jonah thing happening all over again. Maybe they are moths and I their candle-light. But that is ridiculous, of course, comparing myself to any kind of light._

_Hieronymus told me that everything could be forgiven. I wished I was still an angel then, just so I could smite him for talking like that. The things we do for humans, after all…_

_Don't you resent it sometimes, angel? God's Ineffable Plans, and the fact that we are useless pawns to them? You need to be Good and I need to be Evil, just so humans could have their precious Free Will. And it is most unfair. What if you wanted to indulge in the Free Will thing one day…? Or – Satan forbid – me…?_

_Anyway, that is not what I wanted to talk about. Satanssake, it isn't. I ramble so much, do I not? And I am now wasting my ink, and I must say that I am also wasted. Angel – _

"No, no, NO, what am I even DOING?! He's not interested in the sea, or Isaiah or Free Will or bloody mastheads! God – Sat – _Somebody's_ bloody bollocks, why can't I just get down to business?!"

The door creaked.

"Oh, writing is very hard sometimes, is it not?"

"_I beg your pardon…?!"_

Hieronymus slid inside Crowley's cabin quietly and locked the door behind himself. "Writing. It is a most bothersome business… thoughts run amok. There is so much to say at once, and yet nothing at all."

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asked, as unpleasantly as he could manage.

"The Emperor sent us to Rome _together,_ if you have forgotten," said Hieronymus slowly. "And since we are bound to keep company to each other, I believe that it is about time we've had an honest conversation."

"And what about?"

"Our aims… and the things we are willing to do in order to pursue them."

The old man's eyes were two shimmering pools of curiosity, and Crowley suddenly found it very hard to loathe him.

He gave a soft, hissing laugh. "Are you entirely certain about that?"

"Oh, I _am."_ Hieronymus came close to him, closer than humans usually dared, and leaned against his makeshift desk. Outside their ship, the tide was rising along with the wind; and the waves made the entire cabin sway. Hieronymus grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening, but his voice was steady when he spoke again.

"I would very much like to know why a demon would embark on a long and perilous journey to rescue an angel."

Crowley took meticulous care to clench and unclench every single muscle in his face, as if to assure that they were still attached to their respective nerves.

"I must say that your metaphor is lost on me," he said lightly. "Both Emperors are Christian now… the ones who matter, at least. And East or West, the Empire is one for those who believe in it. Who, pray, is the demon here?"

"The one who cannot suffer to be blessed; the one who always gets what he wants for no reason; the one who questions and criticizes everything. God knows it is not me… and metaphors are for poets."

"You fancy yourself a poet, as I understand."

"I saw you in the moonlight, creature of Hell," said Hieronymus sharply. "I heard you."

"Damn you, foolish man," Crowley sighed, exasperation blooming in his chest like a poisonous flower. "That was the _third_ escape route I offered; and _nay._ You prefer getting devoured by the nasty old fiend, is that it? Martyrism, perhaps? Or hubris? Or common stupidity…? _Of course _you heard me and saw me; even a blind cow would have sensed you there. Luckily Hastur was too preoccupied with his Being Occult, as well as his Lurking. A true expert in Lurking, the old bugger – once he's started, he cannot, for the life of him, stop."

For the first time since Crowley had met him, Hieronymus looked truly taken aback.

"You knew I was there and you said nothing?! It has been _two months!"_

"I would have greatly enjoyed if you started spreading rumours and had yourself exiled. Because who in their right mind would believe you, truly?" Crowley laughed. "And even if they were, I'd snap my fingers and knowledge of me would disappear from the whole world. But as it happens, I have better things to do."

"And what about the angel?"

"That is none of your consssssssern!" Crowley hissed. He unshaded his eyes, letting Hieronymus meet the full intensity of his gaze. "And now, if you do not want to find yourself turned into an – I don't know, a wriggling worm, or a sssstrangled crow or the ugliest toad Humankind has ever seen, I advissssse you to go back to your Holy Book and leave me be."

But Hieronymus stayed where he was, as if glued to the spot.

"Why will you not tell me? You could make me forget the words as soon as you uttered them. Or you could drag me down to Hell and wait for the angels of the Lord to rescue me if I prove worthy of it." He paused. "You hate talking about it, do you not? It makes you feel itchy. It must be a secret. Like – what, are you _friends_ with an angel?"

"No!" Crowley hissed. "Not friendssss – demons don't have _friends_ – I owe him, that is all, and now it shall be done with if I am lucky and I can go on my way; but as I said it is none of your concern. And I hate telling sssstories."

"Now that, Master Demon, is simply not true," said Hieronymus. To Crowley's dismay, a smile was playing at the corners of his lips. "You are an enthusiastic storyteller; and you _excel_ at it, if I may say so. You could make the dullest scroll of law sound like the adventure of a lifetime; so why would you not? I am at your mercy – and you may find that having an audience does wonders to the rusty cogwheels of the mind."

Maybe it was the centuries-long solitude, or the fact of being shamefully drunk; or maybe it was simply that no other human had ever been civil with him after they learned what he was… but Crowley felt ire oozing out of his essence like fragrant oil dissolving in a pool of water.

He rolled his eyes.

"If you mussst know," he said in a low voice, "the angel plucked me out of Gomorrah before I could have been smitten, or burned, or turned into salt. He sssaved me without a second thought, and now it is time for me to return the favour. And be done with it. If Below, they were to learn that I owed an angel…"

"Demons do not strike me as folk who would concern themselves with reciprocity." Hieronymus's smile was wistful. "Although it must be said that you do not strike me as evil, either – at least, not in the sense that I expected. I thought you would try to kill me, at least. Easy way, killing… but maybe you have already grown bored of that."

"Maybe," Crowley agreed. "Or maybe I could do so much worsssse."

"What is worse than death?"

"_Doubt."_ Crowley stared at his intertwined fingers as they rested on the table. "Barely leaves me any sssecond, so I must free myself from some of it, you understand… oh, but there is even worse than that. _Imagination."_ He laughed briefly. "I have always had that one, and that is the reason I came to be like this. Oh yes – I, like all demons Below, was a pretty angel once… white wings and clear eyes and not a blessed worry in this world."

"I find it hard to believe that the Almighty decided to punish you for your _imagination,"_ said Hieronymus.

"And rightfully. It wasn't exactly that – true enough, I ssstuck my fingers everywhere I was never meant to. I was your commonest, everyday guardian angel; a bit clumsy, a bit naïve, a bit unreliable. But then Lucifer and his lot started whispering against the Almighty and – especially – against angelic leadership… and things got _wobbly, _yes, I think that is the best way to describe it. Those days, I was assisting to the making of stars. Not the way Ovid wrote it, that's a big bunch of balderdash… no ssense of detail or execution, but I could talk about that for hours… anyway," Crowley gestured vaguely, "that is when I met Lucifer. And that is when that awful _Imagination_ was freed in me and I started doing things that a _lowly_ guardian angel was never supposed to do."

"Such as?"

"Such as creating stars on my own whim, the way I wanted them to be… and nebulae, and comets, and oh, an entire galaxy… got carried away with that one… and then, I created a planet that had rings around it, pretty rings of rock and stardust, and – ah, doesn't matter. One of these days, I'll walk you up on board and _show you_, you can see it from here… That is why I like Earth so much. You can see all my creations from here. Not the Rings of Saturn, mind you, they're too far, but it is there. My planet. It looks like a star."

"_Saturn,"_ said Hieronymus in a strange voice.

"Yeah, so these planets and stars and _things_ had not been Planned, you see. I was being a bother. And then came the _accusations_. Lucifer liked my stars and he tried to get me on Gabriel's good side, but failed, and I was punished; one day I was fondling stars and nebulae and the next day I got demissioned to Garden duty. It goes without saying that I followed Lucifer when he rebelled; and that is how I got cast out from Heaven and punished once more, this time to crawl in the dust until the End of Time. Just… just _overnight,_ you see? Suddenly I had no arms, no legs, no colour-sight and no warm blood. I became the kind of creature you mortals call a snake; and I still _am_ a snake in some ways, although Lucifer recreated a shadow of my original form after that incident with Eve and the apple… He was almost as proud of that one as if he had done it himself." Crowley frowned. "Anyway, I am happy to look like an angel again when I choose to, even if the wings are black. They're still _wings,_ you see."

"_Eve and the apple?!"_ Hieronymus was staring at him wide-eyed. "Are you saying that you were… that you are…"

"Whatever you mean, the answer is probably yes," Crowley shrugged. "I didn't particularly _want _Adam and Eve to get thrown out of Eden, you know. I was just lazing around, and Eve had occupied my favourite sunny spot, staring stupidly at that apple all day. What was I supposed to do…? I couldn't just let her soak all the warmth – that was _my _warmth, and come nighttime, I would have none of it. So – you see. You've got to do what you've got to do."

"Those days, I wasn't even angry. _Yet_. My spirit remained among the stars… I could still hardly believe that they had been taken from me for ever. But that sunny spot under the Tree was all I had back then, so I had to make do. I had to survive somehow… even if through pain, and bother, and getting stepped upon and screamed at because I was an ugly, slimy, crawling creature."

"And later, I got used to Earth, too. To the angel nosing me around in every few hundred years or so; to humans killing other humans, then suddenly getting enough of it and becoming oddly generous; to assignments and journeys and floods… I adapted to everything. I always found a way to make life tolerable. Everything was just _fine,_ under the Son of Man came and screw it all up for me, once and forever."

"The Son of Man?"

"Your Lord and Saviour. The one you worship like a god." Crowley snarled. "A right _bastard,_ you mark my words."

Hieronymus went white as a chalk. "Do you mean that you have met… _you cannot possibly have met…"_

"…the King of Jews, the Carpenter from Galilee, the whatnot. Of course we've met – special assignment from Beelzebub themselves. _Oh-Crowley-we-believe-in-you-Crowley. Oh-it-would-be-such-a-win-Crowley. Oh-you-wouldn't-want-another-dip-in-the-sulfur-pools-Crowley_. Aye-aye, I remember. Most _disastrous_ Tempting assignment I've ever had."

"_You – "_

"I've been at it for almost a year – walked him around, starved him, showed him the entire bloody _world_, gave him a grand tour of my planet… and the silly bugger just _wouldn't_. _waver. an. inch." _Crowley's face contorted with the memory of great pain. "I was such a fool, such a complete, _utter_ idiot, not recognizing Divinity when it was right in front of my eyes. Hidden though it might have been, all of its camouflage was a sack of human flesh and a rather thick layer of sarcasm…"

Hieronymus opened his mouth then closed it dumbly, making a striking impression of a fish out of water.

"Now, one thing you need to know about Heavenly folk is that they are _vengeful_. Not in the sense that they mean you harm, oh no… they mean to save you and _forgive you,_ even at the hardest of times. As if it made any bloody difference. And damn the Son of Man, curse him and spite him for even _trying!"_ Crowley found himself half-shrieking, half-choking on some newfound lump in his throat. "You know what he did? _You know what he did?!_ He told me my _name._ My name of old, the one I was supposed to have forgotten when I Fell; and with it came the memory of divinity, the memory of love, the memory of righteousness and justice and everything I had lost, like a giant gaping hole inside, _right here_ in the middle of what you might call _chest_ and it _hurts_ – it is an absence of feeling, something very dark and very black that is always hungry for things it cannot stomach. It is the worst punishment I've ever had, and it makes – it makes my existence _miserable_." Crowley hung his head. "It is as real as the other half of me, the demonic part, and they _battle._ Can you imagine that? A… a civil war inside of your own body? Night and day? _Every day?"_

"We, humans wage our inner civil wars more often than you might think," said Hieronymus after a long pause, "although I expect… I expect that they might be a little bit less _intense."_

"Uh-huh," said Crowley. "Care to drink some more?"

"Some other night," said the old man. His back was uncharacteristically hunched, and worry had dug deep trenches under his eyes. "I need to think. I will be right here if you need me, though."

"_And why in the ssseven pits of Hell would I need you?"_

"Well, you gave me what I wanted – you told me about yourself. I expect you will want something in return."

The door closed behind Hieronymus's retreating form long before Crowley's brain could have generated a sufficiently cryptic response.

* * *

It took him three more plucked feathers to arrive to some semblance of a conclusion.

_Israfel,_

_I'm sailing over. Got some discord to foment. You would do very well to stay out of my way this time. Things are getting serious._

_Don't tell me that I didn't warn you._

_Sincerely,_

_C._

"Good…" Crowley murmured. "Good. Almost there – but will he believe me? If he won't… if he thinks I seek to trick him…"

* * *

The solution came to him with the first stirrings of the crew outside the cabin, and a lick of saltwater on his face which did not come from the sea.

_To the Principality Aziraphale,_

_Be vigilant, Angel of God, for thy enemy is armed by Hellfyre._

_Guardian Ephael_

* * *

**A/N:** The full Latin date reads: _'Under the reign of Emperor Theodosius II; Fifth day of February in the year 410; before the feast of Lupercalia'._

**Explanation for nerds:**Ancient Romans are very particular about dates; a _'None' _means (approximately) a quarter of the Moon and – in February – a fifth of the month, but there is no way we can actually be sure that it corresponded to a fifth in 410, which is why _'before the feast of Lupercalia'_ is precised, which falls definitely before the _Ides_ (15th).

'_Ephael'_ or '_Ephail'_ means 'Doubt' in Aramaic.


	9. Choose Your Enemy

The last time Aziraphale had been graced with a visit from Heaven, it was to inform him that everything was going _Exactly_ along the Great Plan, thank you very much; that things, overall, were working out _Just Fine_ and if he kept up the good work like that, he might still get _Very_ _Far_.

And as they had been sitting atop the wall of Jerusalaim, feet dangling above the dizzying, sunny depths, it occurred to Aziraphale that Gabriel might actually believe himself when he says that.

"_All you need to do now is wait,"_ said the Archangel cheerfully. _"Operation Salvation is in order. There is nothing from Below that can stop us."_

"_Yea – no, I s'pose they can't."_

"_It all went down rather smoothly, if you ask me. Hardly a moment. A few beats of a Cherub's wings. Absolute jackpot."_

"_Well."_

"_Well – well what? Thirty-three blinks of a human eye. One of the easiest things we've ever done, and for such a great cause!"_

"_Years, Gabriel. Thirty-three years."_

"_Aye, well, that is still not very long, is it?"_

"…_no, not very long at all."_

Less than a mile away, there was a commotion atop Mount Golgotha; two Roman soldiers were chasing off the last of the lingering bystanders, and a group of slaves were busy toppling the last of the rough wooden crosses that humans in that age and that corner of the world had so often used for execution. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary; the three bodies had been laid to rest hours ago, and the sunset draped the hilltop in fantastic colours.

The only missing thing was Crowley. He had still been there just a few moments ago, standing like a statue and staring at the spot where the Son of Man had drawn his last breath: a dark silhouette, a shadow among shadows. But he was gone, and Aziraphale had no chance to give the matter further thought. There were too many things on his mind – too many things still left to do, to ask, to understand…

…and now, three hundred and seventy-seven years later, dangling his feet from _another_ wall and looking at _another_ hill, Aziraphale could still not claim to understand any of them.

* * *

"Quite the empire they had built here," Gabriel said reluctantly.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

"I would not go that far."

Aziraphale glanced at the Archangel cautiously. He had a human shape that day, not unlike his own: eyes burning with a low fire, profile sharper than any Roman carving; and in Roman carvings, sharpness meant _danger_.

Danger in _Gabriel_ – the Messenger of God, the Saviour, the Protector of Mankind?

Perhaps it was just the light. It must have been just the light.

"I did not think it would be so… big," the Archangel admitted. "It is certainly something. I think – I believe that the term is _remarkable._ Certainly remarkable. Although the _smell…"_

"You should have seen Rome under the Great Emperors, when it was a capital." Aziraphale smiled. "Archs of Triumph… theatre… feasts… public restrooms, to reduce the smell you so deplore… But the Empire might still return to its glory. I am working on it."

"Working how?"

Aziraphale's hands, that had been unconsciously wrinkling the hem of his togae, stilled immediately.

"Oh. Just the usual, you know. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is. There was a great _magister militum _– a war general – who had fled North, setting up camp in Gallia and Britannia. Abandoned the Emperor because he did not protect his people properly. I found him and – and _persuaded_ him to take up arms again and defend the Romans. The people _love him,_ Gabriel, and they want their capital and their Empire back, with him on the throne. At least most of them do. I know Romans: I've lived with them for a long time now, and I must say that they have something truly peculiar. You see, it is not only blood and race that draws them together, more like – more like_ culture_."

Gabriel pondered this for a while. "What's culture?"

"It is – well. It is a sense of common understanding. Imagine that you're telling a story, and at one point, you allude to another because it seems accurate. Among people who share your culture, there is no need to explain that other story, because they just _understand_. You do not have to take the logical detour to tell people about, for instance, the feathers of the peacock, because everyone knows that the feathers of the peacock see with the eyes of Argus."

"_What?"_

"Nothing," said Aziraphale, fingernails digging into his palm to stop himself from waving nervously. "It's just an old story that Romans and Greeks tell about peacocks; like when you and Sandalphon joke about heavenly deeds I have not seen because I was down here. _That's_ my point. In any case – _culture_ in the human sense means not only understanding, but also the _love _of that understanding, and the will to protect it from harm."

"Ah," said Gabriel.

Aziraphale smiled cheerfully. "We can observe that particular will at work _right now_, with the two Emperors – Honorius and Constantinus – meeting on the hill of Palatinus. Can you see them? Both believe that the other is a usurper and neither would be particularly surprised to tumble back with a knife in his guts. But right now, as it is, they are both faced with a superior threat – the King Alaric."

Gabriel's eyes followed Aziraphale's finger downwards, ever downwards, until reaching a secluded point between two distant hills where woods met civilization.

"The King of Goths," the angel murmured. "Or the Damned King, as he likes to call himself. Although it might as well be just a tale – he is not nearly as ruthless as he fancies himself. He merely seems to be holding an unhealthy grudge against my friend Sarus... And he would very much like to have the gold and goods Rome has to offer. Alaric has already suffered Honorius's rejection, as I understand, and he shall not beg again. I can hardly fault him for it, truly."

"So he is preparing to burn this city, yes?" Said Gabriel. "Turn it to ash…"

"Burn it, sack it, chase people out of it – any of these things, or perhaps all of them. I am not familiar with his intentions, but I am sure he never expected to march against an army matching his. And if the two Emperors were to join their forces, just this once… I believe they would have a chance. They are beginning to see it, and so are their generals."

"I cannot remember reading your report on this."

Aziraphale took a slow, laborious breath before glancing up at the Archangel, smile warm and sunny like the clearest summer skies.

"But _of course_ you cannot, my dear fellow! There is no way in existence you could – I am not _finished_ yet. I cannot dream to claim the credit for something I have not yet done."

"Of course, of course." Gabriel shooed the subject away with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nevertheless… if we had only known what you were up to…"

"_Why?"_ Aziraphale's voice was uncharacteristically sharp. "Did I do something wrong? I assure you that my intentions…"

Gabriel raised his hand. "This has nothing to do with any _intention_ you might have had, Aziraphale. Only, well… I shall not say that you have laboured in vain, because no good deed has ever been done _in vain_; it might, however, be very long before you feel rewarded for all your trouble. I am afraid that the Great Plan is standing in your way this time."

Two millennia later, give or take a few hundred years, Aziraphale might have concluded that following this statement, he and Gabriel_ stood as if separated by a trench filled with mustard gas, _or that _silence stretched between them like the cord of a guillotine_; for the time being, however, said silence stretched more like a phalanx of dread and unspoken questions.

With burning shields and poisoned lances, to add to the picture.

"The Great – the Great Plan?" Aziraphale uttered the words cautiously, afraid of what they might mean. "Is it… but _nay_, it cannot be the End yet! Mankind has only just started… what are we facing now, Gabriel? Another Flood? An Ice Age? Will people starve? Will a mount of fire erupt like in Pompeii? Will…"

"No, nothing terrible like that!" Gabriel smiled. "It is only this _empire _that we're talking about. More specifically, the city."

"Rome?"

"Yes, Rome."

"What about it?"

"Well," said Gabriel cheerfully, "it has to fall. To be devoured in flames, that is, victim of Hell's temporary triumph. It is written… but worry not, my friend, we shall have our revenge. _Oh, we shall have it."_

"Rome – Rome has to fall? But why?"

"There is no such thing as _why,_ Aziraphale. It is the Great Plan. You are certainly not questioning the Great Plan, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Aziraphale wringed his hands. "But then… what should I do, _then?_ Are there demons to come? Will we fight them – smite them?"

Gabriel's hand was heavy on his shoulder. "But my friend, I have just told you. Hell should enjoy its small triumph this time. It is written – the doom of Rome is written. I cannot change that. _You _cannot change that. No one can."

"But what shall I _do?_ Surely you don't expect me to just… sit and watch…?"

"No, I most certainly do _not_ expect you to watch it. That is why I have come for you, Aziraphale. We are perfectly happy with you in Heaven. You are doing a decent job – some frivolous miracles here and there, for sure, but still overall _decent_. You are very welcome to take a small vacation from this filthy, bothersome plain of existence; to walk the walls of the Eastern Gate again, lest you forget what it means to be a Principality. Until the battle is over. Be my guest. You shall return to your current duties afterwards."

_There is no other being who can dip praise in scorn like Gabriel,_ Aziraphale thought before the words had the chance to actually sink in.

Then, he choked on a breath he did not realize he was holding.

"_Return…?_ Are you saying that I should leave Rome alone to meet its untimely end?!"

A small wrinkle appeared between Gabriel's brows.

"The end of Rome is not untimely, Aziraphale. It is perfectly timed, as part of the Great Plan. I will ask again, _are you questioning me?"_

"No, I didn't mean… figure of speech…"

"Not a very lucky one, then. I don't understand, my friend – would you rather stay and watch helplessly as your beloved city is destroyed? Is that what you prefer?"

"No… no, it isn't…" Aziraphale swallowed. "Listen. Gabriel, just – just listen. I have _worked_ here. An awful lot, actually."

"And your work is truly appreciated. Nevertheless…"

"No! No – _listen…."_ Aziraphale knew he was on thin ice; he clenched his teeth and lowered his voice with an effort. "Just hear me out. There are many people, an entire army in fact, who have come to Rome at my bidding. Well, not _directly_, but they are here as a result of the work I have been doing this past year. I have helped retain the former glory of Rome. If I had known… if I had the faintest idea that the Great Plan dictated otherwise, I would have never influenced these people. Consequently, they would not be here… they would not need to die and see the flames… if this is to be a triumph of Hell, there will be _demons_ here. And perhaps other creatures from Below. I cannot… I cannot let these innocent humans being devoured by demons – I cannot be the cause of that, Gabriel! _I cannot bear the thought!"_

"Do not burden yourself," said Gabriel, his voice almost gentle. "You meant well. You _did_ well. We are angels, that is what we do. Good deeds. Always righteous, and pure. It was your duty to show these humans the way towards the Light, Aziraphale. If their souls are as pure as you have intended, the creatures of Hell cannot corrupt them. They shall be with us."

Aziraphale was going to be sick. "I – I _cannot._ I do not expect you to understand…"

"What is standing in my way? My limited intellect? Or my carelessness, perhaps?" Gabriel frowned.

"Do not look for insults where there are none, my dear fellow," Aziraphale sighed. "You have, however, spent the overwhelming majority of your existence off Earth, and I believe there is something you have not had the chance to grasp yet." He blinked. "Crow… ah… the _crowds_ call it causality. Picture a tree-trunk with fresh, green sprouts: these will grow, and breed new sprouts again and again – they will fork, and branch and fork again until they become an entire forest. And once you have the forest, you can no longer truly tell where it came from – it is vast and abundant and mysterious, and you get lost in it. Likewise, the life of men is short. Ephemeral. They do deeds that breed other deeds, which cause yet other deeds and affect others; and everything connects as a giant breathing thing. Always changing, always in motion. And so: when I decided to help the people of Rome, Gabriel, I have sowed a seed and watched it grow. I am responsible for the results of my actions. I understand that Rome cannot be saved – it is not my place to question the ineffability of the Great Plan –, but as long as there are things I can undo, lives I can save, I shall do it. I might fail, but it is my _duty_ to try."

Gabriel was silent for a long time, and something was changing in his eyes.

"Please," said Aziraphale softly. "I promise I shall not stand in the way of the Great Plan. I would never do that. I only want to save my friends."

"Your _friends?_ Surely an angel must love each being equally…? You cannot pick certain humans to be friends with, Aziraphale, and ditch others. That would be unjust."

"True," said Aziraphale, fighting an uproar of impatience. "Yet I must find a word for the – the _fondness _I feel for people that I meet on my way. You can call them travelling companions or temporary allies as much as friends – I do not mean anything else by it. These people helped me, Gabriel, and I am not about to abandon them. The Great Plan says that Rome should fall: very well. So be it. But the people I have brought here should not fall with it. That is not written, or otherwise stated anywhere, therefore, it _should_ not happen. Not under my watch."

Gabriel nodded. "Very well. You can stay. But Aziraphale – you should be fully aware of one thing_: I cannot help you._ Neither can Michael. Nor Uriel or Sandalphon. No one can. If you stay, you shall stay alone, and unaided, and face whatever is to come. We will not fill your recorporation files, either."

"I would not expect you to, no."

"Figure of speech. I would if I could."

They stood wordlessly for a while, staring into each other's eyes; then Gabriel crossed his arms.

"I suppose I cannot change your mind, then."

"No, you cannot."

"I could command you to come with me, you know."

"You could."

"So you are certain that you shall be staying."

"That I am."

"We might see each other very soon, Aziraphale."

"We might."

"It will not be pleasant."

"Can you remember a recorporation, _any_ recorporation, being pleasant?"

"Fair point."

"I know how this might end, Gabriel. I will try to avoid it if I can… but I cannot, in good conscience, go."

The Archangel bowed his head. "I understand."

Aziraphale drew a deep breath. "How long before… you know?"

"Three days."

"_Three days?!"_

"Aye. _The Armies of the Damned shall gather on the Field of Martius, and drown Rome in flames._ It is written. Be careful, Aziraphale – and whatever you want to do, do it _quickly."_

* * *

_**A/N:** I must confess that I am increasingly unhappy with this story, especially when it comes to the characterisations of Crowley and Aziraphale. I somehow don't think that I manage to convey them. I feel like the idea of the fic itself was great, but my writing doesn't live up to it. Nevertheless, I will try to finish what I started…_


End file.
